The Imperator Heresy
by Gentleman Bystander
Summary: The Emperor of Mankind falls to the Ruinous Powers, salvation comes through his sons. Long form Grimbright/Nobledark study beginning before the Great Crusade and ending in M42.
1. Excerpt

**Legal Disclaimer**

Warhammer 40,000 and all characters, creations, organizations, and locations pertaining there-to are the exclusive property of Games Workshop. Use of said characters, creations, organizations and locations fall under the aegis of Fair Use and are neither intended nor unintentional generating profit or revenue for the Author.

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 **Author Disclaimer**

Typically I would have opted for a M (Mature) rating for this story, but given that it is perhaps more tame in all regards save sexuality than my other work I have decided to experiement with a T (Teen) rating. The story contains contextual and thematic elements that may not be suitable to all audiences. This book is set in a science fiction universe but covers matters of human interactions and relationships that may not be acceptable to all readers. Language and graphic descriptions of violence are common and if this type of writing disturbs you or is unsuitable for viewing by you or your child(ren)/spouse(s)/dependent(s), please do not open this work. This work is replete with refrences and allusions to romantic relationship and human sexuality as part of the natural process of human socialization and may contain strong sexual content and descriptions there-of. Refrences to suicide, drug use, alcoholism, religion, and politics are also contained here-in. If any of these subject matters are offensive or inappropriate to either yourself or your child(ren)/spouse(s)/dependent(s) please do not view my work as I will not be held responsible for posting material you may view as inappropriate after you elected to open and read it. **If for any reason you find the material in this story beyond what should be allowable to a T rated story, please contact me and I will revert the rating to the original M.**

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 **Setting Disclaimer**

Events in this story occur in a universe where the pre-knowledge of Horus' Heresy allows events to be altered to transpire in a different way and the strange course events take when the Emperor himself falls to the Ruinous Powers.

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 **Viewing Disclaimer**

This is the last one...I promise. This work is best viewed at 1/2 justification. You know, those goofy little links at the top right corner of the page opposite the genre/title link bar. Seriously...I mean it, this definetly reads better at 1/2, but don't let me force you.

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 **[Excerpt]**

"Traitor." He spat, his wan face drawn, eyes ringed with crusted rheum and the virulent red of sleeplessness. The master of man-kind, the Emperor, the being on whom the hopes and dreams of the unnumbered trillions of humanity rested stood hunched, his body wracked with the corruption he had wrought on himself.

"Betrayer." He screeched, leveling the tip of his sword at Dorn. The orange flames of judgement replaced now with crackling wisps of the immaterium, each seeming to scream and gibber as they flashed into this realm only to snap with a palpable resonance as they slipped out of existence only to reform again down the length of the blade.

"I condemn you! I condemn you all, you are no sons of mine! You never were, you were devices of my will, mine to expend as I saw fit, the mistake of your creation ends today!" He raised his other hand, the bladed fingers of the lightning claw caked in some indeterminate ichor and with an ululating scream he cast a ripple of eldritch ruin at his seventh son.

It never reached him, he felt the power of his brothers wash over him, like a wave passing a submerged stone, the rush of power cut by his form only to strike against that which barreled back at him.

"Father, let us save you!" Horus cried, his voice choked with sobs, the tears painting his face.

"This is not the way father!" The Angel spoke, his wings shuttering in his grief.

Magnus, Lorgar, Russ, and the Khan channeled their powers as a ward, their combined might, forged in brotherhood and purpose was too great even for their father, the greatest Psyker of his race, perhaps even of all the races. But theirs was the might of weaker sons, sons that had learned from a father's blows how to turn a sword, a punch, a kick. They were son's made hard by their father's own designs, strengthened by his harsh expectations, perhaps even in spite of them. These four pulled the very forces of the immaterium as their father wielded them, turning them to beat back his own might.

Rogal stared at the man…the being…the transcendent intelligence he had once called father, he had once loved and adored and could only feel pity, soul quaking sorrow for what he had become. So mighty was he, so beyond the confines of the temporal mind that he had truly fallen victim to his hubris, the pathos of the whole affair was not lost on Rogal. "Father, you have become what you sought to destroy, what you hated most."

"Silence!"

"Look into your soul, father, see that this is the wrong path, a path of woe and destruction." Dorn was not cowed; he would speak the truth to him, for in it there was still one last chance to save him.

"Hear him, father!" The great smith, the aspect of the Salamander, Vulcan called out clearly over his own tears, "No son has loved you, has been as loyal to you as Rogal!"

"We know you are better than this, that you can overcome this darkness, listen to Rogal's words, father!" Perturabo shed no tears of his own, but his face was masked with sorrow.

The Emperor howled, his howl becoming a scream, the scream becoming something more as they all felt him ripping power directly from the ruinous ones, their pain as he drew strength from his four thralls echoing in the materium and immaterium at once. Then he charged…

And eight brothers watched as they waited for the ninth of their number to be struck down.

Eight brothers prepared to see the one some had called the finest among them, the one that had brought them together die.

The ninth brother, the builder, the occasional brotherly rival of the tenth waited to see the most precious friend die at the hands of their erstwhile father.

Horus, Sanguinius, Magnus the Red, Lorgar Aurelian, Vulcan, Leman Russ, Jagatai Khan, Angron, and Perturabo felt in that moment that the world would end, for without Dorn this brotherhood was incomplete and in their grief they too would die, for no fury or indignation would spring from the well of sorrow with enough might to overcome the darkness of what their father had become. In years to come, centuries, millennia, their other brothers would fall sway to their father's wickedness or be purged themselves. Darkness would spread across the galaxy, and in the grim dark of the far future there would be only death. The darkness seemed to fold in, to enshroud, stealing the very color from their sight and the warmth from their blood, and sapped their bones of strength.

But then a flash of gold shattered the pallid darkness, and the shining beacon of Inwit, the blade of the seventh, Storm's Teeth flashed, and through the screams and weeping and moans of a galaxy lost, the roar of a motor and buzz of teethed chains came high and piercing. As in all things, Rogal stood with stark stolidity, he motions a study of speed and economy, and the hooked talons of the mighty chain sword of the Primarch bit into the edge of the Emperor's blade. As a tower sways gently with a buffeting wind, as a pier or levee parts a crashing wave, as a roof turns away rain or snow, so too did Rogal Dorn turn the Emperors blade, away and back and forward from its original source to penetrate the tarnished armor of the fallen Lord of Mankind. He hadn't even lifted a foot, his arms moved but a few feet in a stroke that would have just as easily befit a neophyte, his back remained straight as the master's blow was reversed with no more effort or regard than if the Primarch had been shooing an offending insect.

And in that moment, all the foulness, all the wickedness, all the hate and deceit and avarice born of the hearts of men vanished from the Ageless Lord, and for but a moment he shone once again as an Icon of Humanity before he began to fall. He never touched the ground though, for in that moment as he began the plummet to the stone he was in his son's arms, and Rogal gently lowered him, resting their father, restored in mind, to his bent knee.

"Rogal!" The Emperor cried out in sudden pain and despair.

"I am here, father."

"Why?" The voice was already weak, the life of his body evacuating more of dissipating spirit than leaking blood.

"This is not what you wanted, father, not what you believed, you allowed yourself to be blinded." Dorn replied, his voice now seeming so much stronger, so much more imperious, riven with conviction but also with his strangely understated affection.

The hands came seconds later, the gauntlets and colors of those most true of his sons coming to rest on him, these nine sons who would save him from himself, that would have humanity from him. The man he had once been, the dreams he had once held, most personified in these eight, the sons that were truest to him, to his beliefs, to his ideals, the sons he did not deserve.

"Rest, father…" Angron declared, the fierceness of the Red Angel momentarily replaced with something that seemed loving, kind, at peace.

"You have strove long enough, father." Sanguinius echoed.

Horus continued to weep as he held his hand tenderly. Vulcan smiled softly down at him, Perturabo fought against his grief with his anguished face. Magnus, Lorgar, Leman, and the Khan all rested their hands on him with eyes closed, faces solemn; tears trailing from their closed eyes. In Rogal's eyes he saw the shine of tears un-spilled, but in them was a twinkle, a sort of mischief, a foreknowledge that was impossible to fathom, immune to probing, a knowledge the turned stoic sorrow into quiet joy.

"Rest…you will rest father. You will rest and one day be reborn, and when the day comes, and your mind has been cleaned of the sorrows and the worry and the terrible responsibility, we will once again come before you, and you shall be our father and lord again, and your dreams shall be completed."

He closed his eyes and spilled his own tears, he did not deserve such unquestioning love, he did not deserve such sons…for truly these were his sons, the greatest of mankind, perfection that had occurred in spite of his interference rather than because of it. "Yes…I will rest…and I will dream, and when I return, I hope to be more worthy of you, my sons."

And then he was still, and the spirit did not leave the room, did not fade away, it just receded as wakefulness does from the mind.

For a moment, a great spirit of lament came across them, even Dorn, and a wail stood ready to be loosed from the mouths of the six who did not grasp the threads of the immaterium, and the four sorcerous brothers opened their eyes, and Magnus smiled for he knew, he felt, he saw spirited amid the planes, woven into the threads of the warp, their father slept, at peace, warm, contented.

"Father sleeps."

Vulcan closed his own eyes, a bitter-sweet smile on his ebon face, "And he will return, when I cannot say, but he will as sure as dawn comes."

The body became as dust, the corpse flit away as ashes in a breeze for it was no longer needed. And then they all felt it, the sleeping mind, the presence of their father beyond the grasp of the mortal or the immortal, the physical or the spirit, lulled in the waves of eternity for the future they would build for him. The brothers began to embrace each other, laughing through tears. Their bonds of blood and comradeship would make a bright future possible; nothing that could await them was insurmountable for they had truly saved their father's soul.

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 **[!-Author's Note-!]**

 **This is an excerpt of the material from the overall story, it will span the 11 millennia of the Warhammer 40k setting with an emphasis on the Primarchs. If you have no interest in this story I will, unfortunately, be uploading it anyway as that is the nature of a vanity project, which is what fan fiction truly is. If you are interested in the story and progression, please bear with the fact I have several other works that will be absorbing most of my free-time between normal life obligations. Just a warning now, I am a huge Rogal Dorn fanboi and I don't think he gets enough fictional depictions that aren't Sigismund and/or Kurze slashfics. There will be strong themes of familial affection and camaraderie in this story, but please realize now that nothing regarding the closeness between the Primarchs in this story is meant to be in any way lemony...despite a lemon being a mighty fruit. ITEHATTSD jokes will be kept to an absolute minimum, even though Bruva Alfa is a living saint.**


	2. Capitulum I

"My Lord, long range auspex have detected ships of unknown origin entering the system."

Rogal turned to the flatly delivered and gruff syllables of one of his countless officers, the unaccented Inwitian method of speaking bringing back distant memories of when this had all been a surprise to him so long in the span of the past for now he remembered _everything_. Here in the second chance, the strange reliving of events as part of an eldritch wager it was happening again, but in ways that were changed by his foreknowledge of them. Some events had transpired as they had before, as an infant he had been transported to this world, he had been taken to the Ice Hives to be raised, he had been accepted into the house of Dorn as a son, he had been raised by the man he came to know as a Grandfather inculcated in the ways of the Ice Clans, he had risen in the house, watched the first man he'd loved as a "father" grow old and die, he had struck out across the stars with the coldly tempered might of the Ice Clans and conquered a demi-empire of his own. And today was the day his _true_ father came, he had never asked before what had brought him here, whether it was just a compliance or whether he was somehow able to intuit this is where he had come to rest.

If his father knew now what he know then…which was, strangely, now, he would order the ships to open fire on the planet, or, perhaps, reach out to his mind from a distance for Rogal Dorn knew _everything_. It was impossible to fathom whether it was a strange mercy on the part of the Ruinous Ones, the unborn, or part of their twisted perceptions of an endgame. But they had made the wager after millennia of trying to turn him, trying to corrupt him, that they would grant him a second chance. The unknown and twisted passage of time had rolled on as it did, distorted and unfathomable in the immaterium, from the day he fell on the traitor's ship and in that intervening time the spirit of ruin had accosted him with a constancy that he almost admired. The determination of it, the whispered promises, the bargaining…the suffering can end, the pain and torment will cease, open yourself to us. It amused him to even consider it, if they knew the pain and torment he had experienced in his spirit, in his very flesh, at having failed so utterly was worse than any of the trillions of torments they visit upon him.

The only voices, the only spirits, the only vile creations of the warp that ever gave him pause were the quiet voices of his fallen brothers. There came a point he no longer looked at them as the reprehensible traitors as they told him truths he had never considered. Magnus, Lorgar, and Angron spoke to him at times, their voices no differentiated to what he could perceive of his own thoughts in the jumble of the immaterium. His three twisted brothers, driven forth by the tragedy of their own creation and the purpose for which they had been created. Magnus in particular bared all his secrets, laid forth the unvarnished truth of what had befallen him, he was a loyal son, devoted to their father, but through treachery, through hubris he had been driven to this point. Lorgar, his tale was of his subtle twisting by the hands of wickedness within his own circle and the apathy of their father. Of course, he had not framed it that way, he gave lip-service to the idea that this was the true path, his only path, but in the tales sung to his mind through days or centuries or eons Rogal had seen the threads and in pulling them, found the nature of the weave. Angron…pitiable Angron was destined for his fall, by the Butcher's Nails driven in his head and the kernel of resentment their father had sown in him.

Mortarion was always silent, as was Perturabo, which was disappointing because, perhaps, here in the ending of all things, he could seek some measure of reproach with the brother with whom he had struck the strongest note of discord. For time immeasurable the Ruinous Powers sought to turn his soul, to give him flesh again, to make him their champion, whispering and roaring and beguiling and entreating that they would make of him the champion that Horus could never be. They swore he would be the Lord of Balance, the Lord of True Reason, and in his wake man would find purpose beyond the strict model of his father, he would let humanity shine and shine brighter than it ever could, tempered with law and reason and rationality but free in spirit and self-determining. How often this had been tempting, an offer worthy of taking, for when they spoke to him they spoke rationally. But loyalty, his loyalty and his shame at failure drove him to spurn them again and again and again.

Then they had made the wager, "If you think you can defeat us, that you can prevent the inevitable, we will send you back, to the very beginning, and you will come to see that the fate that befell the Anathema and his Imperium was simply one of many possible facets."

It had been their most deftly crafted manipulation for it presented a challenge that was rooted in Rogal's very spirit; that no situation was unwinnable, that no conflict could not be withstood. And as he spoke the words, the agreement formed, the pact sealed, he awoke in the biting cold, the chilling ice, the driving snow of Inwit. Even as he felt the instinctive thrust of infancy overtake his conscious mind, he still remembered it all, everything he had experienced in the materium and immaterium alike, and this was the weapon they granted him for their challenge and with this weapon he would save not only his father, but his brothers too, and in a bright future for humanity, they would triumph.

"How many ships have we detected?" He rumbled to the technical Sergeant whose duty it was to monitor the personnel who manned the Eastern Night-Side Auspex satellites.

"My Lord, we could not get a definitive count but…"

Of course, he would not want to say it, in a situation where his word presaged possible invasion. One of his rank still had the curse, or perhaps luxury, of being insecure in their position.

"Tell me, Sergeant, we cannot change the path as laid before us, but we can choose how we shall travel it."

"Seventy three, my lord."

Seventy three…this was more than when he'd first come to Inwit…but what was he thinking? This _was_ the first time he had come to Inwit. Of course, the fact Rogal had expanded the borders of the Star Cluster beyond what they had been in the previous incarnation of this existence might have colored his attitudes towards that of a potential rival who had to be quelled. If Hashin Yonnad was not conducting a review of Araneus Prime right now, his fleet would still be present above Inwit and would likely give the Emperor's fleet pause about having entered the system. As it was he still had fifteen ships in Orbit along with the Phalanx retinue, he could not let his father know he had expected him, had known he would arrive. Similarly, he could not give his own people pause to wonder what he would do about this potential invader.

He turned to his adjutant. "Order all our ships to displace to the day-side, facing the planet's surface at a range of forty five hundred kilometers, if they attempt a landing, we will knock them from the heavens and there feet will never touch the ice."

And part of him began to consider now if this was not exactly what would occur, perhaps the grand wager of the Ruinous Powers was meant to illustrate only hopelessness and he would be returned to his torment, if that was the case it was a brilliant gambit, and while it did kindle a mote of concern in him he was impressed by the forethought.

"Should we issue a recall order to Yonnad, my lord?" Lieutenant Belkiss inquired. Under most situations that would be his first order, in the past when they had faced invasion via enemy void fleets they had been able to hold with the Phalanx alone, with twenty other capital ships he had in orbit, he'd be able to trounce most foes with ease, but against seventy three imperial warships he would not be able to hold long enough for Yonnad's fleet to return. It was a rational suggestion on the part of the young officer, but he did not grasp the weight of the foe they could, potentially, be facing.

"Inform him of potential invasion, but issue no recall, tell him to await an update at the end of the first days. It would take three solar days before he received the message, we will hold with what we have available should they prove belligerent." Dorn declared, "Summon my available commanders we will brief them on the threat, I will arrange the potential ground defense then lead the void battle from the Phalanx."

"If they are hostile, my lord." Belkiss supplied.

"Yes, if they are hostile."

* * *

His father's fleet took three days to reach Inwit, and they approached with the martial bearing he expected, void shields raised, fighters and landing craft scrambled, no doubt at the ships crested the northern polar void plain of Inwit they readied teams to board or, alternately, repel boarders. It was what he would have done in a compliance, but then again, Rogal knew this day would come with the specific certainty that he had opted to spend the day in the strategium in anticipation of the message of ships coming from the void. He too must play his role, the role of Lord of Inwit and its Star Empire, the role of a warlord who would stand against the Imperium of Man until the appearance of his father. The actions of his father's fleet indicated they were reticent upon viewing the Phalanx and warships arrayed against them. The odds were vastly in their favor by dint of numbers, but the void shields and guns of his ancient fortress barge were a match for any ten ships of his father's fleet and the admirals seemed to recognize this.

"Should we prepare to engage, my Lord?"

Rogal turned to look back at Captain Kerwin, the man was practical and skilled, but perhaps too direct to divine the subtleties currently being demonstrated by this father's fleet masters. Optimally, they would have sent their fighter screens forward by now, leaving firing lanes open for them to engage, they would have not closed to these kinds of ranges before offering first fire in a void exchange. They were feeling him out, watching for reaction, likely at the order of his father, which meant that he either knew or suspected Rogal was here.

"No, if they desired a battle, they would have fired by now, better to let them say their piece then we can act if needs so dictate."

"As you command, my Lord."

The stalemate that ensued lasted seven standard hours neither side displacing. Shuttles and fighters flitted about the Emperor's ships but the massive void-craft remained unmoving. Rogal could imagine the blizzard of vox hails between ships, the Astropaths communicating with distant battle groups, and his father pondering what action to take.

In the fifth hour Rogal had shifted his weight from his left leg to the right, in the sixth he had scratched above his left brow, but he had been otherwise utterly unmoving as he stared at the projections of the "unknown" fleet.

"My Lord?"

He turned his head to look at Custus, the old Sergeant standing to his right holding a great steaming bowl. "Broth, my Lord? You haven't taken a meal or rested your eyes for seven hours."

Custus had been a boy when Rogal had met him, forty three standard years ago his clan had given him up to the Ice Clan in vassal levy. He had been one of the first he had ever trained and the wiry youth of fifteen had been an awkward pupil. The clumsiness of his age brought about frequent mistakes, accidents, little derelictions that were no peculiar for a young man but had not place among the warriors of Inwit. Once, Rogal had led detachment into the twilight lands for a fifty kilometer survival course. Days spent marching in the perpetual gray bounded to the right by the pale light of the Inwit's red and distant sun and on the left by the endless night. They marched through snow drifts that could rise above a man's head, nights spent with their backs to one another, alternating teams into the warm center of the circle as those that formed the circumference watched for threats from without. On the second day, Custus had stepped into a drift after receiving his ration of soup and it had spilled, becoming one with the snow and ice too quickly to see in the endless washed grey of this world that was half dawn and half twilight. Rogal gave up his ration to Custus without hesitation, a commander was oath bound to see to the wellbeing of his men, one day he may be required to spend their lives, but not this day and not in such circumstances.

Custus had served him from that day with skill where he possessed it and fervor to match it where he did not and always, always would Custus bring him warm broth on a long duty or watch or endless hours in a strategium.

"Thank you, Custus." He declared as he took the bowl from the small mortal, lifting it to his lips and sipping at the steaming fluid. The flavors of seal meat and rime chicory subtle against the fish stock, the tastes of Inwit, the tastes of home. Terra…was Terra his home? Even in his service to his father, he never thought of any world but Inwit as home.

"So many ships." Custus muttered.

"Many, yes. But they hold, they are not so confident of their odds as their numbers would dictate."

"Perhaps…" The senior sergeant's words failed as soon as he spoke them.

"Perhaps?" He prompted.

"Perhaps, my lord, they do not desire battle, perhaps they have not come here for that purpose."

Rogal knew their reason for being here, knew what their arrival portended for this world, but he had always been nothing more to his people than a wise leader, he did not desire them to view him as anything else, not a seer, not a sage, not a god.

"Perhaps you are correct." Rogal drained the remainder of the broth then turned to the dock master, "Open the primary hanger and activate the landing signal lights, they may wish to present an emissary to speak of what business they have with us."

The Dock Master nodded, "It shall be done, my lord."

Rogal turned back to the aged sergeant, "Come, sergeant, I should be present for any emissary they may elect to send."

Custus nodded, supplying Rogal with the grim smile of Inwit, "I will assemble your vanguard, my lord."

* * *

Four more hours elapsed, standing just inside the bay, open to the star with the intangible barrier of the bay's void-shield holding the atmosphere in. It would be so simple for a being to just step through the shield and greet their demise as the emptiness of the void sucked the air from your lungs, the moisture from your upper tissues and then either froze or baked you given your relative position to a system primary and the unseen energy currents of the blackness.

His men had tried to remain still, at attention, ready to present the martial precision of Inwit, but for mortals such as they, it was a cruel thing to ask so he had told his men to rest. They had settled around the bay, sitting, lying down, conserving their strength and focus for the possible arrival and the martial fanfare such a thing would dictate. But Custus, old Custus remained on his feet and at his side, leaning on the pole on which the banner of the Ice Clan hung.

"Custus," Rogal said softly, "there is no reason for you to remain standing, old friend."

"My lord, you still stand."

"I do, but it is because I choose to."

"Didn't you always say, you'd never require anything of us you would not do in our place?" Custus inquired, the fatigue clear in his voice.

"I did, but that does not mean you are required to do as I do."

"I wouldn't consider myself above doing as you do, my lord."

"So should I arrange for you to wrestle and ice lion?" Rogal turned his head to look down at the mortal.

Custus laughed, then his voice halted, "Did you truly, my lord?"

Rogal nodded, "I did."

Custus laughed again as he shrugged off his helmet and sat it on the deck, placing himself on it as an ad-hoc seat, his hand still holding up the banner, "You win, Lord Dorn."

Before Rogal could reply the vox in the hanger crackled to life, "My Lord, a large shuttle had departed the largest of their ships with a fighter escort on a standard intercept course with the hanger, we estimate its arrival in fifteen minutes."

The soldiers began to rouse themselves, behind him and to the right he hear Custus grunt as he leaned into the banner pole to rise. Rogal held out his right hand, "You can wait ten minutes, sergeant."

"As you say, my lord." The elderly non-commissioned officer deferred, settling back onto his helmet-stool.

Rogal glanced around the bay, moving his head only minimally as he looked over the old shrine that had been erected near one of the embarkation lines. It was in devotion of the One God that the Inwiti worshipped, a holdover faith before the dark age of technology. Soon the worship of him would be banned, and even know some of the elite of his Inwitian vanguard kneeled before it to make their devotions, their prayers for favor equally ancient. One of this father's mistakes was present here, the words of praise, the beseeching of favor, this words did not wind their way to the Ruinous Ones, they entered the warp and drifted to the ones of which the Ruinous powers did not speak, they who presence he had felt as an inquisitive brush before brushing him away. These were older intelligences, older powers made weak in the epoch of strife and excess and contrivity, but they heard the prayers of the ancient faiths and, on occasion, deigned fit to offer their miracles as subtle moves of the immaterium breaching into reality.

Knowing not their names, he offered words to them, in silent beseeching, that he may correct the wrongs in the age to come and that mankind may come to a fuller and more complete glory.

The familiar form of a Solkar pattern Stormbird slid in through the void shield, its form painted in steaming frost over the baroque gold accents the way he remembered it looking. His retinue had formed themselves in ranks, the shield-men to the fore with the rifles lined behind them. To his right Custus stood with the banner of the Ice Clan at attention. The hatches lowered and he saw the Guardian spears and familiar artificer armor of the Custodes emerge. From behind them he heard on of his men whisper. "God of our fathers, they are almost as big as our lord."

"Pipe down." Another hissed.

As the twenty custodies arrayed themselves in their positions the Vigilator Null Maidens exited to take their places to the front and rear of the Custodian Guard. He saw Custus flinch as the sensation of the hungering void of their souls, plucking at the string that tied even the most mundane soul to the immaterium.

Then he emerged…his might projecting even over the maw of the Sisters of Silence, eclipsing the regal splendor of the Custodes, forcing all mortals in the bay to forget even the majesty of their lord. His very presence forced his Inwiti elite to kneel, but Rogal did not kneel he stood proud, his hands resting on the hilt of his sword. Oh father, the things I _would_ tell you, the secrets I _would_ reveal. But his task required other more subtle movements.

"Hail to you son of Terra, son of the humanity… _my_ son."


	3. Capitulum II

"…then we would push on the main gates with a Mastadon assault, our terminators would exit and clear the entry of anti-tank positions for the Sicarans." Horus tapped the map, "That is how the hive will fall, we gain entry then clear street by street until we reach the hive tower."

Ezekyle frowned, casting his gaze over to Falkus, Tarik, and Iacton who mirrored his reservation. "Casualties among the hive's people will be high, my Lord."

Horus sighed and rapped his knuckles against the glass surface of the projection table, "Regrettable, but their fates were sealed by this King of theirs and his defiance."

"And their forces arrayed outside the gates, my Lord? We will need to disperse them to allow the Mastadons and Sicarans to pass unmolested." Falkus inquired.

Lupercal lifted his head, a mischievous smile on his face, a twinkle in his eye. "My brother Rogal comes."

The captains, as one started, while the XVIth legion was known for its overwhelming force, none could rival the siege mastery of the stalwart VIIth. Though outmatched by the might of the Astartes, the armies of this city-state hive were well entrenched behind well-built earthen works with rings of trenches, hardened bunkers, and passage ways that extended out from the underhive of the city itself. To clear the defensive bulwarks effectively would have taken the Wolves another week at minimum and likely considerable casualties from the high number of armored vehicles and tanks dug into the fighting positions to supplement the formidable array of bunkers and pillboxes. But for Dorn's VIIth, this was not only of decidedly little challenge; it was part of their joint expertise in the siege and defense.

"Lord Dorn, he brings forces to aid us?"

Horus nodded, the smirk turning into a grin, "We will put this insurrection down before the solar week's end, the other hives will fall in line after that."

"My Lord, if I may?" Iacton inquired.

Lupercal nodded, "By all means, captain."

"My lord, when the sons of Lord Dorn break the defensive lines, is there not a risk that their forces will retreat back into the hive?"

Horus nodded, "Most likely, but they should not present much of a challenge to us at that point."

"My lord, I am not concerned for our forces, I worry for the harm they may cause to the hive in order to stymie our approach."

Horus furrowed his brows, "Furthering the loss of civilian life and the destruction of the assets of the hive."

Tarik spoke up next, "We have not been able to effectively sever their subterranean rails to five of the other hives and, at present, we do not control the east by north east perimeter of the hive, they may receive reinforcement, resupply, and even evacuate forces via these routes."

Horus folded his arms over the chest of his Cataphractii plate, "This is true."

"We are no doubt a match for them, my lord, but in interest of preserving the time table…" Ezekyle prompted.

Horus cocked a brow at his second, "Allow my brother to plan the siege?"

"I do not remotely suggest that you incapable, my lord, I speak only in the interest of completing this compliance within the solar standard month."

Horus chewed at his lower lip as he looked back down at the map projection. As heavy as the defenses were around most of the city, they were roughly a quarter again heavier along the roadway that connected this hive to its next closest neighbor two hundred kilometers away. It was known the potentates of the hives were on good terms with one another, cooperative and each readily supplied the other. This hive had a particular martial focus, and it was for this reason that Horus had elected to force its fall or capitulation first, in so doing he hoped to force the others into surrendering. He would have leveled it and been done with it, the civilian casualties a sad necessity of the compliance and hopefully preventing addition civilian losses later through the fear it would invoke, but the Mechanicum was a factor here, they desired access to the archeotech and infrastructure of his hive. Rumors abounded of STCs resting in the great vaults of their factorums and the Machine Cult would not commit Titan Legions to the siege where the risk of losing the technological bounty of the hive lay.

If he were to attack the city at full strength, the likelihood of losing the Standard Template Constructs in the siege could force the Machine Cult of Mars to withdraw support in measure or in its entirety from the Great Crusade. Abaddon was correct in his concern and reticence to commit to an assault.

"You are correct though, Ezekyle…the risk of losing anything of value in this city is too great according to my plan. We should consult Rogal and ask for his analysis on how to best besiege the city."

"Speak of the devil," A rich baritone called from the tent-strategium's flap, "and he shall appear."

Horus looked up and grinned as he saw the mammoth form or gold and brass armor in the entrance to the tent. His captains all turned, bringing their heels together and bowing their heads in respect to their uncle Primarch. Horus wove between them to reach his brother, clapping his hands on his shoulders and embracing him. His brother's face remained stolid as ever, but Horus could see the fraternal affection in his eyes.

"I should be furious that father sent you, but I am glad to see you Rogal."

They held the embrace a moment then Horus stood back, "So, what news from Father?"

Rogal's platinum brow rose, "Father did _not_ send me. One of your sons voiced a concern to one of mine over the fortifications of some of the hives."

Horus furrowed his brow, "Oh?"

"We all know this planet fell the second the first boot of the Luna Wolves landed upon it, but in the interest of keeping your timetable, I felt you may perhaps require assistance to speed the siege without certain…complications." Rogal cocked his head back towards the marshalling grounds of the Machine Cult.

"So father really didn't send you…" Horus seemed shocked.

"I was nearby and desired to see my brother." Rogal replied with a twinkle in his eye, the left corner of his mouth elevating ever so slightly.

Horus stared at him a moment, trying to get a read on him, Rogal was straight forward, honest to a fault, but on occasion he did not elaborate on his precise motives providing the truth under a tenuously thin layer of obscured details.

Horus let out a bellowing laugh and clapped his right hand against the armor of his brother's upper arm. "And I suppose you just happened to bring your legion with you?"

"No, actually, I came with two companies that were in my retinue, it just so happens they are the only two companies we will need to accomplish your goal."

Horus turned to extend his hand to the map projection table, "Tell me your plan, Rogal."

As he moved into the tent Horus spied his brothers Huscarl bodyguard as well as his captains Demetrius Katafalque, Roderigue Camba-Diaz, and this first captain Sigismund. Among the Huscarls he spied the unclad head of the Archamusian Life Guard Captain, Kye. Rogal had clearly brought his best for this, and Horus couldn't help but wonder what so drove his brother's understated affection that he would lead this retinue himself without their father's order.

Abaddon stepped forward and bowed his head in respect, "My lord Dorn, as you can see, the city is well defended and fortified. In spite of our desire to successfully prosecute this siege with a minimum of casualties and destruction, we simply cannot devise a way to negate the enemy's position."

Rogal looked at the map, reaching into a pouch and plucking forth a tablet with parchment and a stick of graphite and began scrawling. "Beyond the concerns of the mechanicum, you seek to limit the suffering inflicted upon the people there-in, correct?"

Ezekyle nodded, "It is as you say, my lord."

"Then we shall convince the people to leave." Dorn declared in his brassy baritone.

Abaddon stared at the primarch, "H-how?"

Horus leaned in towards Iacton, "Watch this."

Rogal tore one sheet of the parchment from the tablet, placing it under the wooden slat to which the parchment pieces were bound and began scrawling again, "This city is the industrial heart of this planet correct, mostly in the production of munitions?"

"Yes, my lord." Falkus answered.

"Thus they would rely on trade of weapons and other heavy industrial products for food necessary to feed the population." He finished his feverishly quick movements with the graphite and tore the sheet of parchment off once again, placing it behind the first then immediately began writing. "Food would come primarily via subterranean railway since there is none above ground, river-ways, or by road. With a population high enough to run the factorums at the level needed for a hive of this size, food would need to be brought in daily without a sufficient reserve for the civilian populace to withstand a siege."

Once again he tore page free, placed it behind the wooden slat, and went to work with the graphite. "If you cut off the potential for supply the population would go hungry within two days, the military may last two more. A hungry population will be pliable to suggestion they quit the city, soup and bread outside its walls will stoke that willingness."

Abaddon elevated a finger and opened his mouth to speak but Dorn continued.

"Naturally orders will stand to prevent the population from leaving and all the roads and gates exiting the city will be guarded, which means new exits will have to be created. By the third day, openings in the defensive lines will allow the civilians an open path to leave the city, defenders will be isolated from reinforcement by a collapse of their trench and tunnel networks and will similarly begin to suffer the effects of hunger." Another sheet tore free and the furious scrawling began again, "On the fourth day all forces will be cleared from within on hundred meters of the main gates to attempt to shore up the breaches in the walls." Again a page was ripped from the top of the tablet, "On day five, you forces will _walk_ into the city with no opposition to speak of, the streets will be empty, the factorums abandoned."

Horus grinned as Rogal finished his scrawling and tore the last page free.

"My lord…" Abaddon began, his tone flabbergasted. "How will we accomplish that?"

Rogal turned his head to look at the Luna Wolves First Captain, "Your legionnaires are among the finest warriors of the Imperium…"

"Oh, only among?" Tarik crowed.

"…but…mine are among the finest sappers."

Rogal placed the last of his scrawlings on the map table over the bridge, the second on the river, his third on the overlay of the subterranean rail line, and the final three at the north west, south west, and south east positions around the hive. On each were diagrams of siege works, men required, depths of tunnels, explosives needed, plans for a dam and various canal cataracts.

"The hive will fall in five days," Rogal declared, "and when it does you will still be fresh to immediately move on the next three."

Horus grinned at his brother as his captains moved to view the parchments as placed across the map.

"Remarkable." Iacton marveled quietly.

"Nothing less of the Primarch of the seventh." Tarkus supplied in benediction.

"Blessed Terra, it may work…" Ezekyle commented, looking at Dorn's figures, "it _will_ work!"

Horus continued to smile, "Were do we begin, brother?"

"We already have."

Beneath their feet the earth rumbled, a sudden gust of wind and dust blew past the tent, a few moments later a series of muffled thumps could be heard accompanied a moment later by a resounding crash, echoing across the plains.

"I took the liberty of detailing my scouts to attend to the bridge prior to making planet fall, I trust I have not overstepped." Rogal directed the question directly to Horus.

Horus laughed raucously, "Not at all, brother…not at all."

* * *

Ezekyle watched from roughly thirty meters away as a section of VIIth legionnaires prepared for a breach. At the vanguard, of the forming column, suits of Cataphractii armor with massive Storm shields where to act as spearhead, behind them, rows of crusader armored Imperial Fist legionnaires with thick ceramite shields formed up to create an impenetrable wall around a five meter wide central pathway. At the far end, he spied more of his VIIth legion cousins carrying satchel charges and massive coils of detonation cable. Around them stubber fire shattered on the shields and mortars fell intermittently. The sons of Dorn didn't even flinch, giving no mind to the fire that was meant to dissuade them from beginning the five hundred meter trek to the trench lines.

Two pillboxes opened up with their heavy stubbers, throwing huge amounts of munition at the Fist's marshalling position but most of it falling short and the stormshields of the terminators and the ceramite slabs of the Mk II clad astartes rendering the fire insignificant. Among their number he did not sense the most fleeting trace of bloodlust, such was their discipline that they would not move from the position nor engage the enemy unless it was conducive to their planned operation. It was daunting to witness such stern warriors, so technically minded, focused, to the exclusion of all else, on their mission. From behind him another Fist approached, taking up position beside him. He was short as Astartes went, clad in artificer crafted crusader armor wrapped in a white tabard bearing a black Maltese with the emblem of his legion on the pauldron. Across his shoulder he had hefted a great black power sword, nearly as tall as he, his head showed signs of having been shaved but with a thin stubble of hair growing back in. This could be none other than the First Captain of the VIIth, Sigismund.

"Greetings, cousin." Abaddon intoned.

"Greetings, first captain." Sigismund replied as he looked out over the assembling legionnaires. "May I say it is a privilege to meet the one who many say is the finest son of a primarch of our age."

Abaddon let out a gruff chuckle, "A dubious honor when one considers we are the first sons of a primarch of any age."

"This may be so, but out of the innumerable legions, you are first among equals."

He frowned, "Humility does not suit you, Sigismund, your legend already spreads among the legions. There are many who say you know no equal with a blade and that matched skill-for-skill, not even the Emperor himself would rival you."

Sigismund just bounded his blonde eyebrows skyward, "I would be cautious who I would let hear that."

Ezekyle chuckled, "True enough."

"I came to ask cousin, if you would care to join us? I must admit, I have longed for some time to fight alongside the Justaerin."

The first captain of the Luna Wolves grinned predatorily, "I would similarly be remiss to miss an opportunity to fight beside the master of the Templar Brethren."

* * *

Sigismund marveled at the skill of the Justaerin, the terminators were like the waves of a mighty ocean crashing into the enemy with thunder and fury only to quietly retreat back to crash into them again. He'd never witnessed a Tactical Dreadnought detachment move with such precision and fluidity, every action a coordination of the tactically judicious with almost primal savagery. Their bolters seemed to fire as one, a tide of fire that would herald a reformation of their lines just to cut as their charge began again. In a way it was like the never ending movement of a sea, the crash of waves as their lightning claws and power axes ripped through armor, concrete, and flesh then came the rushing undercurrent of bolters, pulling the foe back into their rush.

It was magnificent to behold. Amazing more still was the fact that they so effectively reined in their own advance, never moving more than fifty meters from the lines his fellow VIIth legionnaires established so that the sappers could plant their charges. Abaddon's Astartes moved with such purpose and precision that they had drawn much of the fire off the left flank of the wall-column allowing the combat engineers and tech marines to work without molestation from grenades or mortars lobbed over the wall of ceramite shields.

* * *

Abaddon glanced back across and over the wall of yellow shields to his opposite number among the Fists. The tales of Sigismund's swordsmanship did not do justice to what he witnessed. Dorn's Templar seemed to dance amid the enemy, neither las beam nor stubber round could touch him, and where his black blade fell, only death and destruction followed. He seemed to drift through his foes like a mist his artificer wrought Crusader armor seeming to weigh nothing as he would prance from toe to heal and pirouette into the thick of his enemy raising sheets of blood and hydraulic fluid into the air with the upward sweep and dropping bodies and equipment to the ground with its fall.

His bodyguard of Templar Brethren seemed to enact their own ritual of battle, their movements perfectly time one to the other, their smaller shields forming a barrier and interlocking as they, as one, shoved their swords into the dirt, coming up with Volkite and Plasma pistols, opening pockets in the enemy, then pluck up their swords they advanced, every motion synchronized stabbing a pocket into the enemy behind their captain, parting the enemy's line until they reached a string of bunkers and pill boxes once again locking their shields together as they tossed melta-charges into the fortifications.

The sounds of battle were pierced by a loud shrill whistle, the signal from the siege master that all charges were planted. Abaddon pointed his lightning claw back to the VIIth's wall and his Justaerins began to fall back to the line as he witnessed the Templar Brethren begin their slow and precise retreat. He had lost sight of Sigismund until he saw a flash of yellow and white mount a dug in enemy tank, his blade flashing down through the main gun of the vehicle, sending to barrel clattering against the hull with an audible bang then stuffing a frag grenade in the breach he had created, jumping of the vehicle as there was an audible thump and the hatches of the vehicle erupted open on a geyser of flame from the ammunition cooking off in the turret.

When they approached the wall of ceramite the shields abruptly rolled open with almost organic fluidity, a hail of bolter fire passing them to strike into the enemy before folding shut behind his terminator squad. The same was performed when the Templars reached the opposite side of the two columns and they seemed to melt into the unit with startling fluidity. A moment later Sigismund leapt over the wall of ceramite and Crusader pattern armor and the wall began to fall back along the path from which they'd advanced. All of the Fist legionnaires marking and engaging targets with their phobos pattern bolters as the wall moved with practiced ease. Three hundred meters from the position they occupied, the Terminators broke away from the column with the remaining Astartes folding into their position like fluid filling a void as the Tactical Dreadnoughts assembled around the siege master as he prepared to set off the charges that had been laid into the ground and bulwarks.

The terminators broke their formation as the Tech Marine Siege Master began striding back towards the marshalling area, utterly unconcerned about the stubber fire snapping around him and the occasional las beam pitting his armor. As he strode onwards his lifted a hand with two fingers extended towards a Legion Serf standing atop a Rhino. The serf lifted a banner, a single square of golden brown bisected by a thick yellow line. He dipped the flag twice and mere seconds later the ground shook as a geyser of earth, rock, concrete and those foes that fell in the area the wall brethren had secured rocketed into the air. Far in the distance, other clouds of dust seemed to materialize around the perimeter of the hive.

* * *

The night's feasting was what would expect in a combat zone, great vats of liquefied meat served as warm broth, the consistency of an Astartes own rich thick blood in which they would dip bread for some bulk and to hold the nutrients as long as possible in their stomachs so they could absorb all the caloric and nutritional bounty it held. For many of the legion warriors, this would be the last meal for some days as they would need to keep their reserve of food as offering to the civilians they intended to starve out from behind the walls. The chapter serfs would also need the nutrition, not yet having the gift of the Astartes organs implanted, they would need food for energy that their bodies would wastefully process to make up for the energy they expended in the construction of siege works. Around the pots of the protein broth the sons of the two primarchs gathered to greet their cousins and extend appropriate honors, tell tales, inquire of news from the Crusades, engage in sport and sparring as was their wont and the way of their craft.

No son of the VIIth or of the XVIth had fallen this day and while Horus watched his First Captain exchange battle honors with his brother's first Sigismund, Rogal seemed aloof, standing in the darkness gazing out over the landscape painted in the hues of the retreating system primary slinking into dusk far off over the flat horizon. As Horus approached he heard his brother speaking to a Master of Signal, the Astarte speaking through the vox grill of his armor.

"My lord, the construction of the primary damn is complete and the ancillary canals are prepared."

"Good." Rogal rumbled, "tell Captain Kataflaque to open the canals, we will flood them in their trenches tonight and they will have been abandoned come dawn."

"By your command, my lord."

Horus stepped closer as Dorn turned in his direction. "Walk with me brother?"

Rogal nodded and fell in beside him as they began a slow pace around the perimeter or the staging camp. "I would have lost sons today if we had proceeded as I had planned."

"You may have, but the enemy would have been severely weakened as a result." The Unyielding One's baritone rumbled back.

"You mean to imply you did not weaken them by your actions today?" Horus inquired.

"We did weaken them today, but they did not understand how they were sapped."

Horus furrowed his brows, "I do not understand Rogal, with the discipline of your men, the efficiency, you could have broken their lines completely. Yet you did not."

Dorn was silent for a moment quietly contemplative as was his way, as Horus had come to expect him to be. "I seek to confuse them."

Lupercal chuckled, "That does not sound like the Rogal I know."

"They perceive us as invaders as…alien, strange and unknowable. We are brutal in form and method, so they expect as much from us, but if we are tempered, it will foster a desire to know why."

"And in their need to know why, they open themselves to the Imperial Truth."

"If we arrive from the void as liberators…as ones who will uplift them from ignorance and fear and bereft cultures, we do not come as monsters from the dark, but as angels."

Horus stopped in his tracks, "Rogal…you have a poetic soul," he laughed, "our quiet, stern brother Rogal has the soul of a poet! Wait until I tell father."

"Horus…I did not come here to be insulted." Dorn replied, his tone ever stonily even but with an upward twitch at the corner of his lips.

Horus continued to laugh, "Rogal, you sneak, you had us all fooled into believe you were as dry as a tox waste. But don't worry; your secret is safe with me."

"We all have our little vices."

"Now I understand why you argue with father about the methods."

"In some ways he is right, a compliance that can be accomplished with speed and violence is preferable in terms of short term gain while exercising our forbearance will lengthen the time necessary for the crusade."

"But…" Horus began, "if we crush a people, fear eventually sows the seed of resentment, the resentment becoming anger, the anger becoming rebellion or at the very least an undermining of our goals."

"Precisely."

"What begins as a short term loss of life…a purge here or there is remembered for generations by those affected, and why bother saving humanity if we have to kill large swathes of it to do it?"

"Father sees a goal that is centuries…millennia away, but I fear he does not give enough consideration to the twist of the intervening time. He does possess a gentler nature, I truly believe that, but he has been forced to harden himself to it, such is the burden of the father. It falls upon we, his sons, to allow this gentler nature to prevail." The Primarch of the VIIth declared as they continued onward.

"If we can do that, all humanity will look on him as a father, it is easier to love, obey, and revere one's father than just a distant ruler." Horus extrapolated, understanding the logic behind Rogal's thoughts.

"That is my belief, yes."

Horus nodded as they continued their slow stride, "I agree with you in principle."

"But not necessarily in theory?"

Horus sighed, "I am concerned that if we move judiciously, this crusade may take centuries in its own right. There is something to be said for gradual consolidation, expansion of infrastructure, assimilation. If we can make worlds more self-sufficient, improve their quality of life, make them believe they are _truly_ a part of the Imperium we are building, it provides us a stronger foundation, one that will be unmovable, but…"

"There is father's time-table to consider." Rogal finished.

Horus stopped, stepping in front of his brother, great moral reservation in his expression, "Is there a way we can work around that?"

"I believe there is, but it will require us to move beyond just our roles as conquerors."

Horus spread his arms wide, "I am more than open to hear it."

"Come to my tent, I will show you what I have devised."


	4. Capitulum III

The Hammer of Olympia looked out at the veritable sea of greenskins battering themselves against the small islands of legionnaires. The first string of five bastions rose up from the low buttes that were bounded These six positions were the only thing keeping the xeno tide from sweeping into the fertile hinterlands one hundred sixty kilometers away where settlers and natives attended to crops and rudimentary aspects of industry. As feral worlds went, this one was remarkably tame, the human population had settled into villages with little appreciable government and the odd bit of superstition held over from the first colonization of this planet and supplemented with the animism of the Xeno Eldar primitives that lived in the forested areas. These Exodites as they called themselves had forsaken the ways of their Craftworld brethren and had lived in peace, if not isolation, from their human neighbors for centuries and he, himself, had been at odds as to which course of action was the right one to take in their regards. The standard order of a planetary Compliance was to eliminate any Xenos presence, but his brothers Horus, Magnus, and Lorgar had prevailed upon him to leave them intact as part of Rogal's great plan. The Xenos would live in peace, unmolested, and provided for in as much as they desired for but one thing; they would help form the astropathic choir of this world; every year they would tithe up a portion of their number to go to a great fortress and using their pysker abilities would undertake the watch, calling out into the void the time, date, and location of the world. From this data, navigators would be able to sail space and weave the warp without the need for constant bearing from the astronomicon. After a year, they would return to their homes as their replacements took up the role. During their time in the fortress, they would be attended and ministered to by sons of Magnus, Lorgar, The Khan, and the Wolves of Fenris so their spirits would be fortified against the Ruinous Ones and that they may eventually come to see themselves as Citizens of the Imperium as a sanctioned Xenos population. In years to come their number would be supplemented with human psykers until their population slowly acclimated and assimilated with Imperial Culture and these very Xenos would come to live among the Imperium not merely as a sanctioned alienage, but as loyal sons and daughters of the human father figure of the Emperor.

Father would have just as soon seen them eliminated, and while his brothers admitted there was a certain immediate practicality to this, it ignored the long-view; in making these Xenos dependent upon and grateful to the Imperium, they became a valuable asset in ensuring the perpetuity and stability of the Imperium. If not for the unique complication of the Greenskin horde they knew would be arriving at this world, Perturabo would have likely bypassed it entirely, allowing a company to begin the process of the Compliance unassisted with auxiliaries from his brother's legions to help attend to certain specifics of infrastructure. But they _did_ know the Greenskins were coming, so he had committed fully half his legion to the process of protecting this world along with two Battalions of the VIIth and a sizeable force from the Vth. The fortifications he had built were rough and crude in appearance, but unbreakable in design to any but the most unconventional means. These were truly masterpieces of defense, combining this own propensity for brute impenetrability and asymmetric warfare with Rogal's propensity for analyzing the geological and terrain minutia to create subtle hidden advantages that would turn a strong fortress into an unbreakable one. In the past he would have built three main fire bases with trenches between them complete with bunkers, pill boxes, and bunkers. The idea would have been that the greenskins would had struck the fortification head-long not concentrating their strength and thus folding under the overlapping fields of fire, but then there was the risk they would simply go around. What they had to do here was make themselves too tempting a target to bypass, a prize the scrap hungry orcs would spends weeks trying to crack and, in that time, break their back as a fighting force for easy mop-up.

He smiled to himself as he thought back to his selection of this area to begin building, the way he could almost hear Rogal's voice in his head, pointing out the terrain features that made it advantageous. The shallow and gradual rise and fall of the land made it easy to ignore the shifts in elevation, but it was just pronounced enough to create natural areas of bottleneck and isolation and it fed the orcs into one or two possible facings of each fort, with the three thousand astartes and twenty thousand Imperial troops in each of the five smaller bases, the Orcs could fling themselves at them in perpetuity to no avail and from the vantage of this, his higher elevated, larger central base he could fling artillery down on the greenskin sea or move to support the most beset bases.

Each base was constructed as a pentagonal structure, half a kilometer on a side with a five meter deep trench before the first line of concrete clad earthworks. The slabs themselves were a meter thick with heavy steel lattice built into the structure starting a centimeter and a half under the layer of concrete and running through the slab, the greenskins could not simply dig into the slabs for hand-holds as the steel prevented the ability to form hand-holds. Leading to the trenches they had to navigate a labyrinth of thigh-high T-wall concrete barriers sunk into the earth forcing a charge to funnel through openings before hitting the trench line. Interspersed with the concrete barriers were three meters high tank-traps a line of which ran at intervals of two meters between the traps themselves, there were three such lines and each was tipped a five kilogram melta charge so should the greenskins bring on of their scrap dreadnoughts or salvaged tanks close they would destroy it, turning the wreck into a new obstacle to be surmounted. If the Orks managed to surmount the trench, they were presented with rows of razor wire, and while it did not act as much of a deterrent, it did an admirable job of tangling the greenskins, leaving them open to fusillades from the walls or the twenty two meter high towers at one hundred meter intervals along the wall. The wall itself was eight meters high of meter-and-a-half-thick steel lattice reinforced concrete slabs, each three meters wide and sectioned together and bolted into steel wide flange beams that sank four meters into the earth. Firing slits were cut at eye level for a mortal, just high enough for a las-rifle bore to be shoved out but to narrow for most of the greenskins crude stubbers. Behind each firing vent was another slab of concrete with angled blast walls to contain attacks by chemical flamers and a grenade sump was cut into the ground should the Xenos manage to lob some sort of explosive through the vent. On the top of the wall there were steel catwalks big enough to stand astartes shoulder to shoulder along the whole length of the wall, reinforced enough to accommodate a squad of terminators behind the meter-and-a-half high steel barrier. From these positions his sons did the bulk of their fighting, boarding shields providing additional protection and the laced into the foe with bolter, plasma, or volkite fire.

The towers were humble masterpieces, twelve meters on a side, built from the same slabs of steel lattice reinforced concrete and capped with a pyramid shaped concrete roof that allowed the greenskins nowhere to land should they make such an attempt. In the towers, there were two combat decks where guardsmen manned quad mount heavy stubbers and heavy bolters, autocannons and lascannons. Crude interior elevators moved ammunition and barrel replacements and power packs up the auxilia and gave the mortals a 360 degree view of the landscape from which they poured merciless fire into and exacted a merciless toll upon the greenskin xenos. The leading edge of the towers ran out as far as the trench-line leaving any greenskins foolhardy enough to have to try to ascend twenty seven meters with hand-hold no-deeper than a fingernail's depth while the adjacent tower slapped them from the walls with las rifle or stubber fire. The auxilia fought in shifts, never allowing the fire to let up as long as Orks or their tiny brethren were in range. Supplemented as they were by astartes as the ground level along with dreadnoughts and fighting vehicles these mortals fought with a vigor and intensity that Perturabo found humbling. Individual soldiers kept grim tallies of their kills scored as chalk marks inside the walls under their name or designation or scribed into the stock of their las rifles and some had to be commanded, at gun point, to surrender their position to rest or eat so taken were they in this righteous slaughter.

Five meters inside the walls raised earthen fighting positions provided firing points for their Sicaran battle tanks or the Deredeo dreadnoughts of his legion that would move up an earthen ramp packed down under steel grates to the gambion lined fighting position. The Deredeos, specifically, gleaned a weighty toll from the foe with their autocannons, plasma cannonades, or Arachnus heavy lascannons.

But they were not limited totally to defense within the walls, for in each wall, set one hundred meters apart from one another, spirit between two squatter towers dotted with heavy stubbers and searchlights, there was a pair of gates, huge and heavy, swinging on meter thick pin-drums, the concrete slabs framed in flange-beams were so heavy that at each door a pair of Contemptor class dreadnoughts were needed to remove the two ton cross beam that barred the gates and swing the five tons doors open so vehicles or terminators could move in and out.

Another of the subtle considerations in the construction was that each base had a line of sight on two others, meaning no one base was isolated from the view of its siblings and in such they could coordinate their fire into areas where an assault seemed to be massing calling down additional support from this the main firebase as needed. Thus far firebases Coral and Ivory had taken the bulk of the enemy contact but had sustained precious few casualties will successfully laying low greenskins in the tens of thousands. Though he, himself, longed to enter the fray, he remained at the head of firebase Crown to ensure the operation was coordinated with a precision that would do his brother's Rogal and Horus proud. He estimated that in another six hours the greenskins may abandon their assaults on Coral and Ivory to focus on firebases Jade, Onyx, and Opal and as such he had detached the elements of the Vlka Fenryka 9th Company under the command of Jarl Joriksson to reinforce firebase Jade much to the delight of the Fenrysian and his battle brothers.

"Lord?"

Perturabo turned to see the bent form of his ancient Olympian steward, Koronikois.

The Lord of Iron lowered his head to look at the attendant, "Yes?"

"Shiban Khan sends his compliments; he reports the few greenskin stragglers that have entered the plains have been eliminated without issue. He stands ready for your command."

Perturabo reached up the rub his chin, as he contemplated, he did not want to commit the quick cavalry forces until he could collapse the entirety of the greenskin horde into the killing box, stuck in the quagmire between all five of the primary firebases with the capability of full commitment from Crown, Shiban did not have the benefit of his full Battalion so to fully commit them would force suicidally high casualties upon them, and while he shared no particular closeness with his brother Jaghatai, he would ward the khan's sons against needless death as much as he would certain that the khan would do the same for his.

"Notify Shiban Khan to move his retinue into the river basin at the edge of the plain, we will commit him to the final battle when the Xenos force is suitably in place." He declared, he knew the White Scar officer would chafe at being held in reserve, but he would be able to slake his bloodthirst to excess in but a few days.

The aged attendant nodded, "As you will, my lord."

As the Olympian mortal turned to leave, a captain of the Guard forces approached with an infantryman of the auxilia, both snapping to attention, "My Lord, auspex have detected a second large greenskin force moving to link with the one we currently have engaged."

Perturabo frowned, "How large?"

"From the area of ground they currently cover our cogitators estimate a force of as many as three million."

He arched his brows, hiding his concern; a force of five million greenskins was likely too many to hold against, even with their superior positioning and fortifications so huge a force could simply overwhelm them by dint of sheer bulk.

"The fleet?"

The guard captain swallowed, "Forced to pull back, my lord, when the space-hulk entered orbit they began accelerating meteors towards the ships with boarding parties, to avoid being overrun they were forced to displace to behind the tertiary lunar body of the planet."

He hated that the needs dictated this, but in order to keep the bulk of his legion intact and to keep the world from falling, he would need reinforcement. If this battle wore on more than another week, the Greenskins would begin supplementing their forces with the newly spawned members of their race left in the wake of their advance. In order to effectively purge this threat, they would have to be dealt with in their entirety before the fortnight's end lest a population of Feral Orks arise in the path of the advance to eventually grow in numbers until this world fell.

"How far is the second group from this position?"

"No more than thirty five kilometers, my lord and advancing at roughly five kilometers per hour."

That was a five hour window in which they could possibly bombard the group from orbit without placing the forces in the diadem fortress range at risk, but that was incumbent on one or more ships being able to make it close enough to the planet in that window of time. If they were forced to collapse all the gem bases to firebase Crown, they would be able to hold another two to three weeks even against the weight of the greenskin force. If Coral, Ivory, Jade, Onyx, and Opal were all prepared for evacuation and bombs sewn into their structure, they could kill maybe two to four hundred thousand greenskins in their detonation, but that would still leave close to three million remaining.

"My Lord?" The guardsman private inquired, holding up a lit Lho-stick towards him.

The Lord of Iron bent his knee and knelt as the infantryman brought up the burning lho-stick to his lips. The chemical effects of the leaf were not present given his primarch adaptations, but Pertuabo enjoyed the taste of the smoldering lho leaf and the fragrance of the smoke. He pursed his lips at the tip and inhaled, the tip glowing red as he took in a mouthful of the smoke and sucked it down into his lungs. The guardsman pulled the cylinder back as the primarch held the smoke in his lungs savoring the just slightly sweet earthiness on his tongue and palate before blowing it out through his nose.

"Is the hulk still in orbit?"

"The majority of it, sir, some portions were detached to make planetfall but we suspect there are still close to three hundred thousand greenskins manning the hulk and it is moving to intercept our fleet at low speed."

There would not be enough time to wheel the fleet around and begin a pass of the planet to bombard the forces in route to this location. Still, if they began to force an attrition campaign here on the ground now, it could buy them a few extra days before the gem bases were forced to collapse. There came a point when foes became too numerous to effectively defend any position, and given the greenskin propensity to ignore casualties, this meant that a sea of the feral porcine xenos could overrun them by simply charging as a horde and disregarding their losses.

"Call the guard captains to my location, then have the astropaths contact any legion vessels within sixty light years, request reinforcement."

The soldier brought the lho-stick back up again and Perturabo once again inhaled from the rolled cylinder, "Inform them that the greenskin host numbers in the area of five million strong and runs the potential of bypassing our fortifications into the inhabitable farm lands."

The captain nodded, "It will be done my lord."

The soldier stood dutifully aside, blowing ash from the tip of the lho-stick waiting until the primarch nodded then would bring it back to his lips, his hands were already too large to effectively manipulate the small cylinder, clad as they were in his terminator armor this just became less plausible. The captain returned to the command bunker and began relaying orders and within a minute the other guard captains arrived.

The primarch nodded to the small human soldier and arose, the infantryman returned the nod and took a quick pair of puffs at the stick himself before stomping it out and returning to his post. Perturabo found himself impressed by the mortal's strangely understated empathy. Most guardsman would have been fearful of such forthright behavior in his position with a common astartes, much less before a son of the Emperor, but this short-lived common human had extended him a kindness out of no other reasoning other than the storied ancient quality of human empathy. It impressed him, the way this small act of relatively inconsequential sacrifice had been undertaken by the least of those assembled on this field of battle had brought him some measure of comfort.

* * *

The previous four days had watched casualties mount, mostly unfortunate mortals among the auxilia. Of those who had been felled by increased Ork probes and their sloppy fire, most would live, but they were losses all the same even if still well within acceptable limits. He had withdrawn much of the indirect fire artillery to Firebase Crown keeping direct fire Predators and the like within the gem bases and moving the exotic energy weapon vehicles such as the fellblades into hastily constructed fighting positions nearer to Crown where they could fire down into the horde without the heat they generated being confined within the bases walls. He had begun exploiting the greenskins perception of desperation, he would instruct a besieged base to begin expending as much ordnance possible into the advance, giving the appearance they were about to fall and were fighting to the last, this would of course cause the advance to falter as well timed artillery and mortars began to fall in the back ranks of the advance. Then, from over the walls and barricades and from between shield wall of smoky grey Iron Warriors with the occasional dot of Yellow indicating one of the sons of his brother Rogal, his Tyrants would advance, dumping their cyclone missiles deep into the advancing line and laying into them with their combi-bolters smashing any foolish enough to draw close enough to bits with their powerfists or shredding them to steaming meat with their chainfists. Then, having expended their ammunition, they would fall back into the base for re-armament as the shield-wall capping the fortifications would reform, once again creating the unbreachable barrier of concrete clad earthworks and ceramite stitching the faltered advance with more bolter fire or lances of melta, plasma, and las fire as the towers raked them from on high with autocannons and heavy stubbers.

It was beginning to look as if they would be able to hold, the position would not falter despite the new force that had joined the group besieging his line of fortification, one of the fire bases may have to be evacuated and sacrificed, but in shorting up the remaining four gem bases they would be able to increase their defensive and offensive output. It turned out the force that was advancing was closer to five million than the initial projection of three and while they had slaughtered what must have been close to a million of the greenskins at this point, there were still almost six million crammed into the seventy square meter lowland facing the diadem fortification line. The risk lay in supply and the possibility that the Ork warlord leading this foray would have some inconceivable spark of insight that would lead him to rally his forces from out of the low-lands to bypass the crescent of hills and buttes entirely and head into the fertile plains. Trying to displace his force at that juncture would be impossible, and while they would inevitably triumph, the land would be wiped bare and too much time and investment had already gone into this world for it to be lost to a ravening clade of slavering greenskins. The compliance of this world would already bring little to no glory to his legion, but this was the nature of their task and in imprinting the Iron Warriors agelessly into the history and makeup in this world, he would forever have its subtle and quiet admiration which was a unique reward, one he would jealously guard from a pack of near-mindless Xenos; the indelible memory of the collection of demi-gods and mortal men who had served to ward them from an insurmountable foe.

Shiban Khan had intercepted a number of Ork scouting parties moving into the river basin advancing in the direction of the fertile plains. If the horde broke free from the quagmire they would pour across the plain and into the settlements, they would find little of what they sought, no technology or crap to speak of, majority of the work that had been done on this world was via beasts of burden or the sweat of mortal brows, a small collection of steam engines that had been jealously maintained and rebuilt over the centuries since old night allowed for some measure of heavy labor, but it was not sufficient to the hunger of the green skins.

"My Lord!"

Perturabo spun to see Koronikois advancing to him, a demand of expeditiousness forcing his aged limbs into a rather competent jog.

"What news do you herald, Koronikois?"

"My Lord, we have received communication via astropath, your brothers Rogal Dorn and Jaghatai Khan have responded, they come with a response force to bolster us against the greenskins!"

"Did they say what forces they bring?" The greenskins had been working on something for the last two days and he was not certain what it was, it could be one of their god machine scrap titans or it could have been fording equipment, the former meant a massed assault on the bases with everything they had, the latter meant they intended to bypass the line of fortifications, neither was a beneficial situation.

"Each comes with a battalion of astartes, lord Dorn brings three brigades of Auxilia armor, the Khan brings the retinue of two knightly houses."

Perturabo clapped his armored hands together, "Splendid! We will see these filthy Xenos purged in their entirety!"

* * *

Forrix, first captain and Warsmith of IVth waited just inside the square of the one the humble hamlets in the verdant hinterlands for Lord Dorn's vanguard approaching in a Sokar pattern Stormbird. The primitive mortals still marveled at the sight of the astartes, they had been on the verge of worshiping his father Perturabo, but he was certain that compared to the austere utilitarianism of the IVth, the radiance of Lord Dorn and the barbaric majesty of the Archaemusians, Templar Brethren, and Huscarls would convince these people that a god truly did walk among them. His father and Uncle shared a sort of taciturn closeness since his father had been inducted into the special kinship referred to as The Dauntless. They were the sons most loyal to the Emperor in deed if not so much in word. Indeed, Lord Dorn routinely questioned their father, often backed by Lords Horus and Sanguinius with whom Dorn shared a form of filial bond that had perplexed and had, once, been the envy of his father. There had been some initial friction between the lords of the IVth and VIIth, but Horus had made overtures to Perturabo and brought him into the tightknit kinship only to later reveal that it was at Dorn's insistence that the Hammer of Olympia become one with their exclusive brotherhood. This world, while primitive, was of unparalleled richness in both the fertile almost blackened brown soil and mineral rich mountains and hills. The people were genetically pure and hardy, absurdly so, harkening back to ancient Terra in their unsullied genomes and their judicious demeanor. This planet was slated for compliance by the Sons of Dorn, but he had gifted the World to Perturabo so that he may benefit from the rich tithe this world would produce in minerals, food stuffs, sons for his legion.

As the Stormbird feathered in for a landing he was approached by an astropath. "Lord Forrix…"

"What is it, astropath?"

"The leader of the fair-Xenos requests audience."

Forrix wrinkled his brow, "Can it not wait?"

"My Lord…his mind reached to mind, his portent was unclear but it seems…dire."

"Hells…I shall attend to this once I have greeted Lord Dorn."

"As you decree, sire."

The ramp lowered and out stepped the Huscarls, the personal guard alternately wearing the livery of the Templar Brethren of Sigismund's Black Maltese and the Lightning Wreathed Brazier of the Archaemusian Life Guard. The Ice Lion furs draped across the power plants of their Artificer wrought Crusader Armor and their power maces and swords clutched in their hands giving them the truly imposing look of Barbarous nobility from some age of yore. Between the ordered rows of elite legionnaires he spotted the bare head of Kye, the master of the Archaemusian brotherhood and captain of the Huscarls, his mark III Iron armor accented in brass and gold, combining Dorn's own heraldic Maltese cross with the brazier of the kinship of Archaemus from which rose the fist of the VIIth. In his hand he bore the stone headed power-mace he was known for like a baton of command with his combibolter maglocked to his right hip and a seax at the left. A few moments later, the golden panoply of Lord Dorn caught a ray of light, sending a bright flash to every eye that beheld the giant primarch descending the ramp. The tallest of his assembled sons only came up to his mid chest and in the gold and brass of this warplate he appeared a god given form.

The mortal citizens of the village stopped dead in their tracks as the beheld the fearsome majesty of Dorn and his bodyguard. Even Forrix had to admit it was much more the image of a primarch that remembrancers though out the legions had attempted to paint for the Imperium, and given the peculiar almost good-natured adversarial relationship between his own father and Dorn, he couldn't help but feel an intense sense of respect for the indomitable Lord of the VIIth. Dorn took a moment to look over the world, closing his eyes for a moment as his nostrils flared and his chest rose, Forrix understood this, for he never grew tired of breathing in the clean sweet air of this world. Occasionally perfumed with the odor of wood smoke, hay, and freshly shorn grass, other times spiked with the stink of draft and herd animal manure or tannin, or the burn metal odor of a blacksmith, but even then they were simple and pure smells. The acrid chemical stench of hive life, of mass waste disposal, of caustic substances found no purchase in this world and a part of him believed it would be best if it remained so. For this world, urban sprawl and massive manufactora would not be an improvement, these people lived well and thrived in a simple life and to force it to "improve" by the standard of modernity would likely harm them more than help.

Dorn gave some direction to Kye and with a nod the captain of the Archaemusians crossed to the square where Forrix stood with a contingent of his marines.

"Greetings, cousin." The Huscarl intoned with mock-affability, it was known that Kye was a taciturn man, serious and utterly devoted to his craft as retainers to their lord, while he was not considered crass or unpleasant, his true nature was as cold as that of the Ice Hives of his birth.

"Hail, captain." Forrix replied as they shared the ritual wrist clasp of the astartes.

Kye wasted no more time on pleasantries and the First Captain found he appreciated the way the Huscarl Captain focused on the task at hand. "Our astropaths detected something strange from the alienage, something besets them?"

Forrix frowned, "I had just been made aware of this myself, I intended to discover the nature of this as soon as I had oriented your Lord on the situation on this world."

"My lord has declared this a priority in the immediacy of our current concerns. He has total faith in your lord's capability to stymie and crush the foul greenskins, we have arrived to simply facilitate the foregone conclusion of your legion's utter and complete victory."

Forrix couldn't help but feel the swell of pride, for his legion to be so considered by one of the original three scions of the Dauntless was no small mark of honor. Lesser legions had been bled heavily by the Orks in previous encounters; victory was measured by amount of losses accrued and in said situations victory was only achieved by scourging the planet to the point of being almost unlivable. Still, what Kye said was not an empty platitude or wrong, thus far a paltry fifty of his brothers had died despite two full weeks of siege, among the mortal Auxilia the figure was not significantly higher, and no greenskin had been able to venture as close as the furthest outlying farmsteads in the meantime. From that perspective, the concerns of the Xenos exodites was of higher importance given their proximity to the issue, he knew his gene-father would not begrudge them even three days in the interest of appropriate mobilization for how he would devise the plan of battle. Dealing with the problem that beset the Aeldari would not take them more than a day on the outside of possible timetables, they could reach their woodlands by ground transport in under four hours and traverse to their settlements in the forest in under and hour by foot.

"Does you lord wish to speak with them himself?"

Kye frowned, "If such becomes necessary, he implied that I should go with you to see to their problems with all possible haste."

Even given his position as first captain of the IVth, one did not ignore the bidding of a primarch, especially where it lay within the confines of responsibility you already had. "Very well, we shall go, I have a land raider nearby."

"Would it not be quicker to avail ourselves of the Stormbird?"

"The Xenos frown upon technology beyond that which we bear upon ourselves being brought into their woodlands." Forrix replied, his father had instructed that they should pander to the cultural considerations of the Xenos in this regard at least.

"We can land it outside the forest, can we not?"

That was, admittedly, a practical solution, and it cut the travel time to a mere half an hour flight time. "That would be preferable in regards to expediency."

"Shall we then, first captain?"

Forrix glanced back at his retinue, he was about to dismiss them when Kye immediately spoke up, "Of course your subordinates would remain with you."

He gave a deferential nod, "Let us be off then."

As they approached the transport craft, Dorn was direction a trio of his masters of signal in where to direct landing detachments and a group of ten Husclars readied bikes to travel to the Diadem Fortification line. As they drew close Dorn glanced in Forrix's direction and closed his eyes with a deep nod, he in turn clasped his right hand over his chest and returned the gesture with a shallow bow. Kye, ever the one for expediency, pre-empted further ritual by stating, "My lord will join us momentarily."

Forrix noted the lack of tech priests upon entering the Stormbird. There were a few, three, and while they wore the robes of their station, they had remarkably less augmentation then he was accustomed to seeing. The scent of incense was not present, purity seals did not adorn any of the equipment and they offered no prayers to machine spirits as the engines whined to life then began a steady purr as the vessel lifted off. They had been airborne for six minutes before Lord Dorn approached, and Forrix moved to make his subservience and respect to the primarch, taking a knee and bowing his head. No sooner had he done so than Dorn gestured with a hand for him to rise.

"You need make no signs of respect to me, nephew, you are my brother's son and should think of me as naught other than your gene-uncle." His brassy voice called out in the remarkably quiet interior.

"My Lord, I simply meant to show the proper respect." Iron Warrior declared, stunned at the disregard for protocol by the primarch.

"Your devotion to duty and to your father, my brother, is respect enough for any astartes. Your fealty is spoken for and that is respect enough for me. How does my brother fair?"

"We have stymied the greenskins' advance, my lord, my father holds the foe at a standstill in the lowlands, still he has concern that facing their current quagmire the greenskins may simply opt to bypass the defensive lines and brave the river or attempt to scale the cliffs."

"Are the cliffs undefended?"

"We have naught but a few scout detachments and stormtroops of the auxilia in this area, my lord, given the greenskin propensity of seeking battle we believed the likelihood that they would brave the two hundred meter climb was remote, thus we sought to focus them into the lowland."

Dorn nodded, "My brother was correct in this regard."

"The Diadem defensive fortifications have held them to the lowlands for two weeks, but four days ago they received massive reinforcement from their hulks in orbit, it has made our plans to simply quit the fortifications to slaughter them in the fields impractical."

"How many are there?" Dorn inquired.

"My lord, our close-range auspex scans allow us to estimate there are five million currently in the low-lands."

Dorn frowned, "Such a number, how are your casualties?"

"Negligible, all things considered, my lord, fifty battle brothers, perhaps a hundred mortals, but we have laid low close to one million of the Xenos."

"Impressive." Dorn rumbled.

Forrix was granted the privilege of Lord Dorn's countenance for the remainder of the flight as the primarch posited questions about the situation at the Diadem Line and further inquired what progress there had been on the world prior the greenskins' arrival. Finally, in a lull in the conversation Forrix gave voice to something he had noted at the time he had boarded the craft.

"My Lord, if I may, does there not seem to be too few tech priests for a craft built by the mechanicus?"

Dorn's left snowy brow arched, "This craft was not built by the mechanicus."

"But…my lord…craft of this make, the complexity…"

"There was a time, first captain, when mankind did not have a cult of Mars, on numerous worlds, humanity built technological wonders without the blessing for secretive and esoteric castes and orders and in those ages, humanity thrived."

Forrix felt the blood rush from his face, "My lord…the mechanicus would call this heresy, without the enshrining of a machine spirit…"

Dorn's mouth widened into an austere smile, "Do you know what a machine spirit is, first captain?"

"No, my Lord, I had thought-" He didn't finish, leaving his words to hang.

"A machine spirit is a set of computational algorithms and heuristics, a series of cogitation programs that is meant to somewhat mimic the facility of an abominable intelligence but without the ingrained self-determination. The prayers and blessings of the cult of Mars is nothing more than ritual practice meant to reinforce the concept of exclusivity. The mechanicus is a lie." Dorn declared, a fierce glint in his eyes as he laid forth his pronouncement.

"But, my lord, the Emperor himself…"

"Tolerates them. My father knows that we are generations away from being able to produce the technology this Imperium will require without their aid, but mark my words, he knows that theirs is a practice in the basest artifice, they maintain their existence by furthering the perception that without them humanity would be incapable of producing the technology they borrowed or stole from prior ages of human ingenuity."

Forrix balked, "Then the techpriests here are…what?"

"Merely humans, they do not adhere to the worship of the omnissiah, they recognize the 'machine spirits' for what they are…programming schemas, but by presenting themselves as tech priests, they alleviate the curiosity of the cult of Mars."

Forrix had been shocked to learn that this craft and thirty others like it had been built in relative secret on Araneus, as had the rhino in its loading bay, as had the phobos pattern bolters and armor his sons wore. All of it, built without the knowledge, blessing, or interference of the Mechanicus. While he saw the great advantage to this, he wondered if a schism with Mars was a path the Imperium would be wise to walk. But such things were beyond his comprehension as just an astartes, surely the Emperor's Sons had more complex insight in these regards than he.

Forty minutes after landing, Forrix and his retinue along with Kye and two other Huscarls entered a clearing having detected the presence of a small exodite hunting party. Upon exiting the tree-line he heard them begin muttering in their Xenos tongue, he fought back revulsion as they spoke to one another in their overly florid language. One of them, a female, approached projecting the foolhardy defiance common among their breed.

"What brings you here mon'keigh?" She demanded in a clipped tone and lilted vowels of her people as she was forced to crane her neck to look at their faces.

This posturing was tiring, he could kill every one of the Xenos in this clearing with his own hands and barely consider it a strain, yet she _dared_ belligerence. Still…his father had ordered politeness so he bit back his indignity and spoke as calmly as he could.

"Our astropaths have sensed great disquiet from your chieftain, it seemed as though he implored our assistance."

Over his squad vox he heard two of the battle brothers of his squad speak, "Did she just call us monkeys?"

"No, brother, mon'keigh is the way they label outsiders; it is like unto how we call them Xenos."

"But we are human, they are the Xenos."

"To them we are the Xenos, brother."

Her eyes widened, "You've been summoned to Tirnain? But who is this Mon'keigh with you?"

"Kye." The Archaemusian declared.

The Aeldari blinked, rolling the name around in their heads, the similarity in pronunciation to that which they titled him confused them, the wondered if they were being mocked? What could they do if they were?

"What?"

"I am captain of lord Rogal Dorn's Huscarl, and master of the Archaemusian Life Guard, my name is Kye." The VIIth legionnaire declared, resplendent in the artificer armor, ice lion cloak, the tabard of his order and the war-baton cradled in his right arm. Kye looked like a lord, like a First Captain should, the gold and brass flourish on the yellow and black of his armor stood him out from the average astartes, even Forrix himself seemed inconsequential by comparison.

"This wastes time," Forrix chided in as gentle a tone as he could manage, "please take us to your chieftan so we may see what he needs of us."

One of the male Xenos said something to the female, it was unclear to the meaning of his words but it was clear from his tone, this confrontation was nonsense, it accomplished nothing, their people had accepted limited rulership by the Imperium and to confront organs of that rule was foolish. She nodded, grudgingly and spoke, "Come with us Mon'keigh, we will take you to Tirnan."

They spent another twenty minutes traversing the forest, moving along the rocky bed of a brook until they reached the primary settlement, having been here twice before Forrix was immediately aware of the level of disquiet in the village, the Xenos present did not go about their normal daily activities, everything was a frenzied blur of activity, preparing themselves for…something…was is possible a group of the Greenskins had landed not far from here? Were they preparing defense or to evacuate? Their disquiet became clear moments later when they saw the obscene armored bodies of their more belligerent kin marked with the cradling cross and heart of those known as the Biel-tan.

The ancient of Tirnan turned as Forrix and his retinue came into full view, his eyes going wide with panic, "Astartes, flee!"

Before Forrix could react energy blasts pitted into his armor and among the primitives cries of fear rang out as they scattered. Outright chaos erupted as concealed Biel-tan soldiers attacked from three sides. One of his retinue fell immediately as a blast of energy from their long rifles smashed into his helmet. Forrix presented no further hesitation as he bounded across the ground towards the elder of Tirnan as the officer of the Biel-tan lifted a pistol and his curved sword. Shots went wide around Forrix as he covered the distance at the speed he'd always heard mortals call alarming. Two shots pitted into his armor as he closed, drawing neither his chain sword nor his bolter as he covered the distance, upon reaching the Biel-tan warlord the Xeno attempted to bring his sword into to strike from the side. Forrix, moving with in human speed, clamped his hand on the being's right wrist, immediately crushing and wrenching the limb, crushing armor into flesh and bending it as bones cracked underneath his gauntleted fist, his right hand clenched onto the helmet, his fingers squeezing as the joints of the armor protests and the skull began to collapse against the cracking wraithbone. Behind him, bolters barked and a volkite screeched as the legionnaires engaged the attackers.

A sickly groan escaped the Biel-tani warlord as his head began to collapse under his hand and blood ran out from the helmet. With a sharp and sudden wrench Forrix snapped the Xenos' neck and pulled, rending the meat of his neck and pulled the helmet and head completely off the body, turning just enough to send it hurtling at one of the Xeno riflemen who was struck so hard by the flying helmet that it snapped his neck, dropping him to the ground. Forrix turned to see the horror on the face of the Tirnan chieftain. Doubtlessly he believed he would be next, that in this situation the presence of the craftworlders would be construed as a betrayal.

"Take your people and escape into the woods, this is our duty Aeldari." Forrix ordered.

The aged Xeno nodded emphatically, "Tirnan will forever remember your aid, Astartes."

Forrix unclamped his bolter and took up his chain sword, turning to face the attackers once again in time to see Kye smash one of the attackers in the ground with his power-mace the baton snapping down with such great speed that upon impact in flattened the Xeno craftworlder into the ground, then blew his body apart as the crackling energy shot through its torso, ripping an arm and a leg off and splattering the ground with gore, pulped meat, and shattered wraithbone. The battle brother who had fell in the first exchange of fire was on a knee now, his helmet streaming smoke from a blasted pit in the side as he fired his bolter. Another of his brother, Herodate brought his Volkite serpenta back up and the weapon screeched, lancing a beam of orange into one of the craftworlders, flames erupted from the seams in the wraithbone armor and the body thrashed as steam and smoke from boiling bodily fluids and burning tissue rose from the still moving would-be corpse.

Then the inhuman howls came, not from his brothers, but from at his left flank, the wails modulated through vocadors as he turned to see the retinue of banshees in their pale wraithbone and their scarlet maned tall helmets dashed towards him.

The keening wails struck him with a force that seemed to melt his muscles as any movement became labored, the first was already upon him before he could swing his chain sword when a flash of gold caught the corner of his eye and a massive hand grasped the screaming female Xeno, lifting her bodily into the air then slamming her into the earth. The segmented plates of a massive greaves and sabaton of gold and brass came down to smash her, crushing ribs, spine, organs and armor. The deep braying growl of a chain sword caught in his ears and he knew that only one weapon in this universe could produce a sound of such mechanical purity, Storm's Teeth. Rogal Dorn's movements were so quick that the displacement of air caused a wind to catch his red cloak, billowing it open as he stepped between Forrix and the sprinting banshees as he lifted Storm's Teeth high to challenge any who would dare advance further.

Whatever forbearance Dorn's challenge served to offer was lost on these Xeno filth for they charged onwards still, oblivious to the fate they had thus sealed in challenging the Primarch. The Lord of the VIIth took a single step forward that may as well have been three for the distance he covered in the loping bound as he was suddenly amidst them, the massive chain sword, larger than any of the banshees arrayed against him lashed forth in a lightning quick arc the spinning talons shaped teeth kissing and parting wraithbone, funneling a stream of gore across the ground as the razor sharp tips of the teeth parted skin and flesh without effort, a line of a thousand centimeters deep cuts drew reddening lines across the bodies of the leaping and charging Xenos. At the end of the arc, the chain-sword struck one of the banshees full-on, and passed through her as if she were nothing but a cloud of smoke, her top half parted from the bottom as both fell end over end to the ground, her scream cut short in a gurgling croak as her body voided itself of all that it held, breath, blood, and offal.

Forrix was so amazed he wanted to stop to witness this peculiarly austere mastery of war, but his gene-forged aggression drove him forward to slay the enemy and in five bounding steps he fell upon the alien rifles, his own chain sword lashing out in brutal clubbing motions, smashing his foes as the teeth of the chain-track ground into and through armor to meet the tender flesh and fragile bone underneath, ripping messy furrows into the bodies, destroying and savaging what they touched, splitting torsos open to hang gaping in messy butchery. And within moments, all was silent except for the idle growl of chain sword motors and the purr of servos as they viewed their surroundings.

Dorn knelt beside one of the stricken banshees, around him lay sixteen bodies of her sisters as he pressed his giant hand against her cuirass, pushing her hard against the ground. Forrix approached but held at a distance of around five meters.

"Why have you come here?" Dorn's basso rumbled.

She spat out something in her native tongue, her voice bathed in the tones of pain.

"They came to take us, lord." The voice of the chieftain of Tirnan came out thin and strained.

On the face of the Xeno warrior there was an expression of betrayal that overrode the pain she felt in her body as he life crept from her. Dorn rose to turn to face the elder, "Why?"

"They take issue without treating with your people, with our coexistence with the humans of this world." The elder's voice was like a reed buffeted in a gale, conflicted by what had occurred but not for the reason Forrix suspected he should be.

"Their intrusion was uninvited, I trust?"

"It was lord, though we share a blood, I…my people…are not of their kind, we ceased to be Aeldari this day, we became traitors to their kind. We make ourselves your slaves, lord, I ask only that you not punish my people."

"We have no need of slaves, Aeldari." Dorn pronounced and Forrix could see fear on the face of the chieftain.

"We do, however, wish brothers and sisters, do you give your oath to the Imperium?"

The chieftain nodded, "To a man, woman, or child."

"Then I welcome you as brothers and sisters of the Imperium. My men will ensure no similar fate has befallen any other villages for I must know attend to my brother's war against the greenskins."

* * *

Perturabo stood still in contemplation as a technician of the Auxilia hosed Xeno gore from his terminator plate in Firebase Coral. He head led an assault foray into a building mass of the greenskins an hour earlier, fighting roughly a kilometer into their lines, only falling back when the pleas of the Auxilia Imperialis commanders and his own sons became so emphatic that he had advanced beyond support range that he finally deemed it prudent to fall back. The fact he and the terminator squads he lead had run their ammunition dry ten minutes prior to their retreat only compounded the prudence of their requests.

It had felt…cathartic…to vent some of his frustrations with this foe in personal combat. A trio of tech-priests were attending to his powermaul, maintain the power supply and affixing purity seals to the power-plant while two others topped off the ammunition magazines for the storm bolters attached to his wrists, and reattached the feed flexis. The Auxilia private from days before approached again, his las rifle showing the scratched tally marks of kills in the stock, forty two by the count of hash marks. He looked up at the primarch with almost disrespectful familiarity, saying not a word but lifted an unlit lho-stick with arched brows. He grinned at the mortal, who stepped up on an ammunition crate then lit the lho-stick between his own lips before lifting it up to the primarch's lips. Perturarbo took a deep pull at the lit cylinder, the smoke smelling sweeter, the taste of the burning leaves sharper and tingling, even more satisfying than the last time on his tongue. He closed his eyes, bathing in the sensory satisfaction, savoring it.

"These are fine lho-sticks, private…the finest I have experienced, where do you acquire them?"

The private nodded, with almost comfortable familiarity, "My home world, my lord, some insist and I am incline to believe we grow the finest lho in the galaxy."

His voice was heavily accented, he was likely from some marginally developed agri-world the name of which he had likely never heard, but the Auxilia was not wrong, this was intensely satisfying. The guardsman's comfort in his presence was amusing to Perturabo, most of the Auxilia were rendered bumbling fools in his presence, so awed to be in the presence of a son of the Emperor, yet this wisp of a mortal felt no discomfort at all and, in a way he could not even understand, he appreciate it.

"I would not argue that point, but how do you come to acquire them? Surely you did not bring them all the way from your world with you?"

The private grinned, "There is a secret, my lord, you have to find the boxes marked with a K on the bottom, this means they were made from leaves harvested on Katurs five."

Perturabo took another deep drag of the burning stick and pondered a moment, "Perhaps, we should mandate all lho stick come from Katurs five."

"Ahh, but then all lho sticks would be the same and it would all become bland, would they not, my lord?"

The primarch chuckled, "Yes, I suppose that is true, one can only appreciate quality where it is so often absent."

"As you say, my lord."

There was silence for a few moments, doubtlessly the guardsman was contemplating whether or not he had overstepped his bounds, but thus far he had seemed to enjoy some level of favor from the Primarch and, perhaps, he reasoned that at times even a Primarch desired to be treated as a fellow being and not some unapproachable demigod. "What was it like outside the wall, my lord?"

"It stinks." Perturabo intoned, brooking a laugh from the guardsman.

"We all lost sight of you for a moment, all we could see was the flying body parts and blood."

Perturabo imagined for a moment an almost farcical geyser of Orks in the sea of their fellows and imagined that such a sight would indeed be amusing to watch. He let out a sharp and halting laugh, "I imagine that must have looked peculiar."

The auxilia private grinned in a silly fashion in spite of himself, "It was, we started watching for the greenskins popping up in the air to figure out where you were. How many did you kill, my lord?"

Perturabo smirked, a soldier would think this way, "I stopped counting at five hundred."

The mortal's expression went wan, his mouth drawn into a line, "Really?"

The primarch nodded, smiling in amusement.

"It would take me weeks to catch up with that." He muttered.

Perturabo laughed at this, the idea of a guardsman matching a primarch in kill tally was ridiculous, the fact he wanted to so badly was amusingly admirable, he realized he truly liked this mortal, "There will be other worlds, private."

"But, my lord, you'll get too far ahead there that I'll never catch up." He protested with a grin, making jest over his own absurd premise.

The Primarch laughed again, "Maybe we shall get you a tank… that should help even it up."

"Oh yes, my lord, a tank would be very nice!"

He laughed again, taking another drag from the paper cylinder of lho-leaf, "What are you doing at this firebase?"

"I volunteered to be placed closer to the action, I like firebase crown very much, but it's too far away for me to shoot effectively."

"You like battle?" Perturabo arched his brows.

"I volunteered for my planet's tithe, my lord, I wanted to join the crusade."

The primarch nodded with an appraising expression, "Admirable, private. How long have you been in the auxilia?"

"Five years, my lord."

"And you have not been promoted?" He furrowed his brows.

"The paperwork moves slowly, my lord."

He reached up to rub his chin with the heavy ceramite gauntlet, "We shall have to fix that, you should be a corporal at least."

"If it keeps me on the front line I would be willing to stay a private, my lord."

He chuckled at this, "Yes, but if we did that we could not adequately reward your devotion."

The private was just about to speak again when the sudden piercing whine of a Stormbird pierced the air. Its presence set the orks to a frenzy and stubber fire intensified as a series of muted cracks and from where it hovered near the base Perturabo could see the chunks of soft metal fracture and scatter against the thick hull. The yellow of the construction and the black fists that adorned it could mean only one thing, his brother or one of his captains had arrived.

The craft made no attempt at landing, instead the rear ramp opened some fifteen meters above the ground and he saw a giant shape of gold with a red cape leap from the vessel, plummeting to earth as streaks of yellow followed. Perturabo turned to one of the terminator sergeants, "Open the rear gate, my brother has arrived!"

"Yes, my lord."

Moments later a pair of contemptors lifted the metal cross bar while two others grasped the gates in their clumsy manipulator hands and swung the doors open as the golden armored form of his broth, trailing his red cloak marched into the base with a retinue of his hurscarl sons flanking him.

"Rogal!" He intoned as the Primarch of the VIIth approached.

His white haired brother handed off his massive chain sword to one of his sons and stepped forward, his hands coming up to grip Perturabo's upper arms affectionately, "Hello brother, we came as soon as we received your call."

He embraced Dorn back to the extent he could with his terminator armor and grinned, "What do you think of the fortifications?"

"They are splendidly designed, overlapping fields of fire, area denial considerations, terrain advantage, walls that would take months to crack under concerted bombardment, fresh water reserves, grass and grating to prevent the interior from becoming bogged in mud, how long did they take to complete?"

"We had three days to finish the first line, completing crown took another two."

"Remarkable."

"If I had but another two days I might have even been able to make them pretty." Perturabo teased.

"You may have needed more of my sons for that." Dorn returned in jest with a twinkle in his eye.

The Hammer of Olympia laughed, "It is so good to see you."

"I have brought a full battalion with armor brigades, the Khan has five maneuver companies and thirty Imperial knights, how would you see us deploy, brother?"

Perturabo cocked a brow, "You have no plans for this yourself?"

"You are the master of this battle, we are here to serve as you deem fit."

Perturabo looked in Dorn's eyes with a genuine appreciation of the de facto deference this entailed, it effectively meant that two of his brothers were humbling themselves before him, making him the first of equals. "Thank you, Rogal. I do have a plan, I call it Operation Three Eagles, once Jaghatai arrives I will go over it."


	5. Capitulum IV

Sanguinius cut eyes over to his brother's equerry as the Red Angel closed his eyes and brought his hand up to rub his temples. Several of his own sons were present with him but they seemed to overlook the lapse in behavior on the part of Angron. His equerry, however, did not miss the gesture and his eyes echoed Sanguinius' concern.

"I can think of no strategy beyond landing and killing every one of these Xenos in direct combat." Angron declared, his voice straining to hold back the growl that wanted to leave his lips.

"Perhaps, we should open with an orbital bombardment?" The equerry posited in a similarly strained tone, as if he was certain he knew what the answer would be.

"No." Angron answered, "they will need to fight the void war, besides, the twice damned mechanicum wants the hives intact to recover any salvageable archeotech."

"Do we fight for the mechanicum now, Angron?" Kharn challenged.

"What do you suggest?" The Primarch inquired, gritting his teeth against the pain pounding in his skull.

"Level the hives, whether we do such from ground or orbit matters little, our delegation by the emperor was to bring this world to compliance, not to ensure the machine cult has first access to the choicest toys."

"Kharn…do you know what would await us should we make foes of the mechanicum?" He made no artifice of his own hatred of the words leaving his mouth, but they were driven by a most dire practicality.

"I can think of no particularly negative consequence, Angron. The machine cult pays lip service to the Emperor but they know a crusade against Mars would serve to break them for all time, making them thralls to the Imperium rather than partners, besides…your brother's ingenuity may rid us of the need for them in the entirey."

Angron let out a bitter laugh, the sound coming as a hacked cough, wet with mucus and chopped by ground teeth, "Just because your beloved cousin deigns to lavish you with gifts from the seventh legion does not mean we all sit in such a position, equerry."

"I simply mean to present you with an alternative course of action, Angron." The captain of the 8th Assault demurred, "Our mandate was _not_ explicitly to pander to the mechanicum but to bring this world to compliance, that we may do so without spending our lives so callously means we will be able to engage in other compliances at a quicker rate, this benefit to the Emperor will outweigh some slight bout of machine cultist distemper."

Sanguinus took the opportunity to speak up, "Actually, brother, I bring a gift from Rogal."

Angron turned to eye him, "Oh?"

The Angel smiled at his brother and bowed his head slightly, "To your legion…in my holds Rogal sent three hundred suits of the Araneus Pattern mark three Iron armor, one hundred Inwit Pattern Cataphractii tactical dreadnoughts, and eight Cobulo Pattern Spartan assault tanks."

"Oh, a fine gift indeed, four hundred of my hounds and eight of my tanks will not require the ministrations of the red-robes, I am forever indebted." The sarcasm in his tone was obvious.

"Also…" Sanguinus continued patiently, "He wished you to have these."

The Angel gestured and a pair of servitors approached bearing a long lacquered box, two and a half meters in length by one meters wide and a third of a meter in depth. The dark wood of the chest was carved in the heraldic rampant hound of the XIIth legion. Sanguinius took the burden from the barely sapient attendant servitors who turned with surprising crispness of movement for their ilk and walked back to their place ten meters from the strategium hololithic display. He set the box on the smooth crystallite surface and slid it towards the Red Angel, stepping around to his side of the table then gently lifting the silver latch and lifting the top on its ornate hinges style to represent the devouring jaws that had become informal heraldry in the legion.

Inside the chest, laid into recesses lined in blood-red velvet sat Rogal's gift and a small folded piece of parchment scribed in the dark ink Rogal favored in his own hand. Angron's eyes fixed on his tribute but turned them reluctantly to the note, lifting it, taking the step of reading it aloud.

"'Angron,'…well let no one say he is one for needless formality, 'You need not worry about these breaking in battle, it will be as constant as the reminder of our oaths, those public and those dearest to us'." His voice took on a softer tone as he spoke those words, Sanguinius knew why Rogal had penned those particular words, Angron's dearest oath had been to the slave rebels he had led on the twisted world of his upbringing, it was an acknowledgement from Dorn that he knew that some things were more precious than their duty.

Angron continued, "'As you wield these, make true _all_ your oaths. Mors in Victoria, Rogal.' Well, he does have some talent for wording."

Angon set the note aside with almost peculiar care and reverence, in most situations he would have simply crumpled the parchment for the barest hint of catharsis destroying something would bring, but he made no such attempt here. He reached in the chest and lifted the chain axe, the head following a waving form on the head, a crest at the top sloping down to the spine of the axe-head, the belly of the blade wide and then recessing to once again flare outward on the axe's beard. The slabs of adamantium plate that formed the axe head were beveled to a sharp edge with a toothed temper-line, the plates themselves bearing a delicately raised relief of mountains with the word 'juramentum' scribed faintly into the slope. The teeth were fashioned from polished Carbonados, the black diamonds shaped into hooked talons each six centimeters in length, and socketed into the chain by a wide flange opposite the chain of the cutting edge, nothing short of total destruction of the chain itself would serve the strip the teeth and the hardness of the black diamonds themselves made them effectively indestructible. The haft of the axe was sectioned with inlays, the handle itself was of high gauge steel pipe, formed from a rolled slab of wootz steel, and along its length, a spiral of wootz steel formed ridge in the valley of which lay the carved bone inlay set into the handle with twisted copper wire and brass tacks, the massive butt cap of the axe had a single thick ring to which a chain of precisely rolled, joined, and welded wootz was attached, four meters in length. Opposite the head of the axe along the back of the socket was a sinister hawkbill, recessed into which sat the motor for the chain-edge. The hawkbill itself was mundane, neither a power or chain weapon but it's razor edge and merciless point made it no less an effective weapon, with the strength of a primarch it would serve to puncture armor with ease or to drag an opponent from a vehicle, or to the ground. In the spiraling scrimshaw of the bone inlay were the words, 'These oaths we make unto ourselves, unto our brethren shall be parted from us by no power.'

Angron hoisted the weapon with reverence and as close to delight as Sanguinius had ever seen from him. Beyond just a work of art or a weapon of war or a demonstration in masterful artifice, it was a secret acknowledgement and demonstration of respect and affection from brother to brother, neither who truly understood each other. But, perhaps, in this gift, Rogal demonstrated that he understood Angron more than he let on, more than he was willing to verbally acknowledge. On the underside of axe head's socket, engraved in letters almost too small to see there was an acknowledgement, 'Thee who behold this weapon bear witness, he who bears it is Angron, Primarch and Commander of the XIIth Legion, in respect and love from his brother.'

"I shall enjoy trying to break this." Angron chuckled, his voice a gurgle of mucus from his inflamed esophagus, the product of a voice that often came our as howls, growls, screams, and shouts. But his eyes said anything but, his crass words were the expectation, but his eyes said he would cherish this weapon for it was not given to him out of expectation or obligation, it placed not burden upon him save to be who he was, to triumph for his _own_ reasons.

Angron was transfixed by the combined brutality and artistry of the weapon, style and finesse as flourish on something inevitably and unquestionably functional. A smile touched his mouth, lips pulled back over teeth to give a predatory grin, but in his eyes was another truth, he was impressed and enraptured by the weapon.

"Kharn, come see what my brother sends me."

The 8th Assault Company captain approached eyeing the weapon, his momentary staid, almost apathetic demeanor giving way to his own marvel, and his could not color his tones with the laconically level-headed tone for which he was famed when not engaged in slaughter of his foes, the other thing for which he was, perhaps unjustly, most famed. "It is, truly, one of the most exceptional pieces I have ever witnessed, Angron."

Angron laughed, the sound harsh but indicating his genuine delight, "My puerile brother thinks I will not break this weapon…he may even be right, oh but I will try! I will name it…Oath."

"Oath?" The equerry prompted.

"Yes…Oath…I swear here and now, before witnesses, that I will do my best to break this weapon on the bodies of our foes." It was another subtle window into his soul, it was acknowledgement that with this axe at his side he would never use another.

Kharn cut his eyes back over to The Angel and Sanguinius had no trouble reading what his brother's equerry was thinking, _This is not the oath of which he speaks, he knows what this is meant to signify, he is glad because of it_.

"Let us see what else Rogal sent me!" Angron was barely suppressing the joy that the promise of battle with the weapon in his hands brought him, and also the very personal acknowledgment the artistry in the weapon was meant to represent. In a smaller recess sat a plasma pistol, normal and mundane at first glance but on closer inspection one could see the care that went into its construction. To any other being it would be an astartes plasma gun, but fit to a primarch's hand it would serve as a side-arm. It was plain in appearance but closer inspection of the accelerator coils revealed a doubled layer of the magnetic coils, an oversized and reinforced exciter chamber, and a complex turbine system over the barrel under the cooling vent that would speed the dissipation of heat from the weapons discharge. Ceramic backed brass accents concealed discharges veins that would bleed off over-capacitance of the accelerator assembly as static, and an accented grip of the same spiraled wootz, scrimshawed bone, and copper wire accents matched it to the haft of the chain axe. Once again the buttcap of the grip had a ring to which a chain of wootz steel was connected, forged in no less a meticulous fashion as anything else. Engraved in the bone was another litany, 'Let those who have wronged we of oaths feel the heat of judgement's fury,' once again, an acknowledgement from Rogal of the Oath that had been broken in Angron's stead and the revenge he was due because of it.

"Recompense…" Angron muttered, "this shall be called 'Recompense'."

The Primarch of the XIIth returned the pistol to the recess in the chest and hoisted the axe once again, still distracted by its form and construction examining it more closely, running his finger down the razor sharp bevels of the axe-heads frame, slicing his finger in the process, his dark blood staining the edge. His thin, cracked lips once again drew back from his clenched teeth and he chuckled, the ease with which this weapon would cut was undeniable, the chain track with the black-diamond teeth would just expedite the process, unlikely most chain weapons there would be no need to bear down on it to push the blade through, it would slide through flesh and armor with ease, more brutal than a power weapon but with more finesse than the average chain blade. Sanguinius could see his brother's uncontrollable desire to wield it in battle, to strike down foes, to wade into battle was only enhanced by the promise of getting to use the weapon.

The Red Angel licked his lips, the anticipation of a battle that was still days away gnawing at him, but of late he had begun to strive towards some measure of discipline, in a way it was Angron's own attempt at acknowledging the affection and trust he had felt from both Sanguinius himself and Horus at the direct prompting of Rogal. They three had enjoyed a closeness that was unrivaled anywhere else in the legions of their father, a unique bond and filial devotion that would, perhaps, seem strange and disturbing in this dark and twisted time. Rogal had insisted that _all_ of the sons must come together and form an unbreachable bond of trust and friendship amongst each other, for if they did such, there would be nothing that could move the Imperium. Rogal had suggested that Angron must be attended too, must be made to feel trusted and cherished for his was a dark path that they could see clearly, and if they folded him into the warmth of trust, friendship, and support, perhaps he could fight back against the song of the nails. Horus, himself, had been the one that had managed to convince Angron to cease his implantation of the nails in his sons, a practice he had begun early after his assumption of command of the legion. Those that had received the nails were skating various edges of insanity, of those that had received the implants, Kharn seemed to be most in control of the implant except when battle overtook him where he fought with a strange focused brutality. Sanguinius' own son, Nassir Amit, was similarly brutal, but the Flesh Tearer's rage was different from Kharn…he did not seek to punish a foe as much as to simply destroy them and move on to the next, leaving a wake of cleaved, smashed, and eviscerated dead in his wake as he sought to move further and further afield in search of worthy foes.

"Sanguinius," Angron spoke, drawing his attention from his introspection, "what do you think, my brother, how should we proceed? You and some of your sons will join us, what do you think our course should be?"

His wings fluttered as he drew his hand up to his chin and stared at the hololithic display of the Xenos hives and the surrounding lands. "I share with you a lack of love for the mechanicum…"

Angron chuckled, "It is not just a lack of love on my part, brother, it is outright revulsion."

Sanguinus lips curled into a smile, "I was attempting delicacy of phrase, but aye, I feel much the same, brother. However, I can see benefit to our legions with leaving the hives intact, the mechanicum will not venture afield until we have absorbed the brunt of the danger, but with proper artifice we can glean that which would benefit us first without their knowledge."

Angron bounced his head in a loose sort of acknowledgement of the point, "Possibly."

"However, we should not spend the lives of our sons carelessly, not when there are other worlds to bring into compliance, not when there are still deadly foes we must strike down." Sanguinus lowered the hand from his chin, looking fully at Angron, "I long for a worthy battle, brother, one where we must rely on our might and fury and skill."

Kharn rapped his knuckles on the brass edge of the table, "Here, here."

Angron nodded, he desired a worthy battle too, perhaps more than any of them for his rage and fury were not just his own but a product of the foul archeotech that invaded his mind, his expression was uncharacteristically pensive. "Something I noticed though…"

Sanguinius arched a brow, "What, brother?"

"Observe the hive spires…now look at the Xenos construction around it…they are not the same."

Sanguinius had utterly overlooked it, Kharn nodded, "I noticed the same."

"This…Xenos filth builds itself upon the remains of a human civilization…I am convinced of this. This, stain of a race…took this world and slaughtered the humans who built the civilization they live upon, they are naught but carrion feeders, picking at the corpse of humanity's works."

Sanguinius' face paled as he suddenly realized the truth of it, he had seen this hive layout again and again across numerous worlds, likely adhering to some ancient STC that had helped govern the building and colonization efforts of humanity as they took to the stars thousands of years before. "Damnable Xenos…" he muttered.

"I am torn by this…while it should suggest that the humans that fell were weak, it may be that the alien filth used deception and the basest of artifice to achieve this end, if that is the case, we must punish them."

Sanguinius saw an option in this, one he felt no specific moral compunction again given his disdain for the methods of Xenos. "Phosphex!"

Angron pursed his brows, "Phosphex, brother?"

"Lob shells into the hives, drive them out into the fields, and lay about them with all the fury we can muster, a righteous slaughter in the grass and dirt where neither side will be able to rely on anything except for their own mighty and indignation. They can face us in battle to be remembered as a foe with at least the courage to face their demise or they can sit huddled in their cities to die a coward's death unworthy of thought or consideration."

It spoke to something at the core of Angron, of his sons, there was a layered insult to it, his legion viewed phosphex deployed from artillery to be cowardly, it was not a warrior's method to kill, but at the same time, using them for the purpose of area denial would force the foe to either live up to the ideal of courage or die a coward's death to a coward's weapon. None of his sons would need sully themselves with the weapons, the auxilia could do that much, and at the same time he could force these Xenos to prove some measure of worthiness and save the cities.

Angron rubbed his chin, considering it, wincing as the nails began to once again pound his hand shifting from his chin up to his forehead which he rubbed, "I abhor the use of phosphex by anyone lacking the courage to make themselves a possible vicim to it, but at the same time…there a sort of grim justice to the plan. Yes…I like this plan, more than I would like the idea of blasting these hives from orbit or trying to wade through narrow street by narrow street to clear them from their hovels. Let them either stand the field and face us as a worth death for their race or let them hide and cower to have their corpses burned from their burrows and warrens and be forgotten as anything but as a nuisance. What say you, Kharn?"

The equerry nodded, a pleased, almost aggressive smile on his face, "I do like this plan, Angron, let them face us might for might or let them just die forgotten."

"Then it is decided! Thank you brother, I do not think I could have devised an option that was so…poetic."

"I do enjoy poetry." Sanguinius jested.

"Part of the affectation of a fop you strive for?" Angron sniped in return.

He simply shrugged at his brother in return.

"They say you are prettier than Fulgrim, more charismatic than the Lion, and a greater leader than Guilliman…but unlike them, I see the fire that burns in you, your lust for a great battle, a worthy foe…in that you are just like me. We are more alike than they credit us for, brother."

Sanguinius nodded, he knew this to be true, he and Angron were opposite side of the same coin, but it was a coin forged of bloodshed and fury. "We are, which is why we must triumph together, brother."

* * *

Angron rarely was able to sleep without the nails beginning to sing to him, the pounding pain of their song keeping the catharsis of rest from reaching him without powerful drugs or battling to exhaustion. The former he despised and the latter came to far and in between to avail himself of. But, when one of his brothers sat with him, he could sometimes find enough ease of mind to where the song was dulled to a mutter and sleep could overtake him. Sanguinius knew he had this effect to greater degree on his brother than any of the others so he would sit with Angron, in his quarters while he slept, ten hours ago he had accompanied the Red Angel to his chamber, they spoke a while then Angron lay down on his thin mattress which topped a stone slab, closed his eyes, and drifted into sleep, the first time in weeks. Sanguinius entertained himself with reading, pict casts, and vox recordings, no sound which he made or produced by the media he perused served to rouse the Primarch of the XIIth for once he was in his comfort enough to sleep, nothing would rouse him. After ten hours had elapsed Angron opened his eyes with a sharp hissing intake of breath through his nose and rose.

"How long did I sleep?"

"Just a little over ten hours." Sanguinius replied softly.

"I needed that."

"I know."

Bedecked in only a loin cloth, Sanguinius could see the trail of scars that formed his Triumph Rope snaking around his body, a physical testament to his victories with but a single space where should have lain his token of defeat. But it was not a defeat…not truly…his victory or triumph had been stolen from him, by their father. But was it a defeat…it was a bloody forfeiture, a justly deserved resolution stolen from him. Angron stepped over to the table and took up a pitcher, pouring the red wine within the brass vessel into a cup which he brought to his lips and gulped down. Spirits had no effect on him, but the alcohol served to preserve the fluid from stagnation and spoilage, for a mortal is would have been a truly heady brew, much stronger than any normal wine. Sanguinius could smell the sourness of the brew from where he sat, and as Angron cleared his parched throat he sat down the brass cup and spoke, his voice even and clear of the inflammation that usually turned his speech into a raspy or gurgling utterances.

"Have they reported on how long until planet fall?"

"Fourteen hours." The Angel replied.

Angron swore, "Why didn't you wake me?"

"Because you only need six to prepare." He replied with a smirk.

"But my legion…" Angron didn't seem so much angry as upset, he viewed the failing as his own.

"Your sons have been attending to it per your normal plans of battle. All is in readiness, brother."

He nodded, "Still…it is not fitting for the commander of the legion to sleep while his men work."

"You…" Sanguinius pointed, "needed the sleep, and your sons were more relieved that you were able to get some than they were bothered by having to oversee preparations."

Angron pursed his brows again, his voice was still the calm, almost lovely evenness it exhibited before the nails forced growls and bellows from him, "Why do you call them our sons? They are not, by any appreciable measure, our sons. I never understood it."

"Are they not? They have been molded from our genome, they exhibit our traits, they seek to serve and honor us, how are they not like sons?"

"A son should love his father…not fear him." The nails clearly had yet to awaken.

"Are the two so different?" Sanguinius countered.

"What do you mean?"

Sanguinius sat down the book he was reading, "When a child first comes to love a parent, it is tempered by provision and protection, the parent is stronger, capable of doing things through their strength that a child cannot, a father's violence is to be turned outward to threats that may approach the child, the awe of might is a kind of fear, but in that fear there is reassurance…this might will not be turned against me."

Angron shook his head, then nodded, "You are correct, that is the way it _should_ be. I have not been that kind of father."

"Nothing says that cannot change."

Angron reached up and slapped his hand against the steel tendrils that bore into his scalp between the red braids of his hair, "These…these…damnable nails…they make it so that…if I show joy or pride, they bite all the harder, only in slaughter do they quiet and give me any real joy."

"Then slaughter _with_ your sons, let them kill the foe at your side, train the nails, conquer them."

Angron's face took on an open quality that was rare and Sanguinius believe his was the only one alive who had seen it, "I have tried, but when the bite…"

"You are stronger than them, Angron."

"Did you know they are killing me?" Anrgons brows arched at Sanguinius expression, "Oh yes, they are killing me, not as some sort of hyperbole, _he_ has not deigned to tell any of you, has he?"

"No…he has not."

"These nails will kill me, but before that they will drive me completely mad, I would rather my men…my sons…fear and hate me than to mourn me when this happens."

"We will not allow that to happen." Sanguinius insisted, feeling a gnawing sense of sorrow at the thought of losing a brother.

"Well, the masters of the machines say there is no preventing it, they nails cannot be removed, and they will continue in their task until it becomes too much to survive."

Sanguinisu forced a smile, "What can a machine cultist truly know of this? We are Primarchs, Angron, the most perfect beings to grace the universe, we will devise a way."

"Not the two of us, you're far too pretty to be smart and I'm just a brute." Angron returned the smile with his own sort of fatalistic frank bemusement.

"Have you told Horus?"

"No."

"Let me talk to Horus…and Rogal, they will either devise a way or know who to consult."

Angron sighed, "I would say no out of course, but you would likely do so anyway. I do not believe they will succeed, but do as you will, brother. If anything they may preserve me the indignity of turning into a gibbering invalid and allow me a clean death."

"Thank you, brother."

"Thank me?" Angron let out a harsh laugh, "Why?"

"Because I would not lose you, you are my brother."

Angron smirked, "Enough sentimentality; let us see to our preparations, we have to make to battle, and I have an axe I swore I would try to break."

The Red Angel approached the chest which he had elected to keep in his living quarters rather than his arming chamber and worked the latch, lifting the lid to remove Oath from its niche and hoisted it, looking at it with the appreciation one did a piece of the highest art or a beautiful woman.

"To see this…I think, perhaps, Rogal does understand me…yes…you should speak to him about it, I think he will offer a keen insight."

"You know, he forged it by his own hand, he would not let his legion craftsman touch a single component of it."

Angron spun the axe around its haft in his hand, feeling the weight and balance of the hawkbill end, "Did he truly? I assumed he just guided the process."

"He took the steel from battles, worked it in a forge, beat and folded it, hammered and shaped it, ground the diamonds of the teeth, constructed the motor, and engraved the bone all by hand."

Angron let out a chuckle, "I never would have imagined as much from him, I saw him as a builder more than a smith."

"That is because those are the only two weapons he had made that I know of. He wanted them to be unique for _you_ Angron."

"So I enjoy the love of my brother Rogal, there is a strange reassurance in that."

"You enjoy the love of your brother Horus and mine as well, Angron."

When he turned his head back there was a twinkle in his sharp eyes, "Oh, I already knew that."

The Angel slapped his hands on his thighs and stood, "Well, to our preparations then?"

Angron nodded, "Meet me in the strategium in twenty minutes, and if you could, request food, I am famished."

* * *

At this the seventh hive the foe had required no coercion to quit the city to fight they had come charging and ravening from the city before the artillery could even deploy, falling upon the Auxillia as almost feral hordes. Hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of the Xenos rolled forth from out the hive, up from the ground seeming to pour outwards like blood seeping from a wound. For almost thirty minutes the slaughter continued unabated as the mortals tried valiantly to defend the position from the Xenos horde. Among the vanguard of the howling, gibbering creatures were great monstrous siege constructs of flesh-craft. Purple skinned like their smaller antecedents with the same lustrous polished hematite eyes, set in descending rows of four on either side of their head, their hinged jaws showing sharp plate-like teeth, claws as long as a mortal's arm tipping in segmented steel sharpened to a razor's edge. The muscular forms were clad in plates of graven metal showing acts of unspeakable excess and as they tore into the mortals a dripping organ emerged from between their legs at the carnal delight of their slaughter. I have never witnessed such degeneracy in a foe, such lasciviousness mixed with their violent inclinations.

I was attempting to direct a rally of the Auxillia bolstered by my own sons when a piercing howl drown out the sounds of battle, the screams of the dying, the ululating screeches of the Xenos. I looked to the origin of the sound to see Angron leaping through the air, Oath clutched in both hands as he brought it down on one of the siege beast's neck the whirling chain teeth biting through the metal plates to meet flesh as the sharpened adamantium slabs parted through skin and muscle with ease, the chain sawed through the bone and just dragged the twin bladed housing deeper into the meat of the creatures neck as he struck through the neck and throat with ease. The creature fell as he did, spine severed along with blood vessels and esophagus, the brown blood poured from the open wound as the beast's huge heart continued to beat, a tattered flap of muscle and flesh holding the head to the body as Angron landed then kicked the massive skull, it flipped sideways with such force that the remaining meat tore and the head when bounding over the ground into a mass of its mortal sized brethren, flattening several in its path.

Angron lifted the axe over his head and howled a challenge, "Sons of the Imperium, my hounds, angels! To me!"

The dispirited Auxillia that had been embroiled in fighting for their lives lifted their rifles and gave a shout as they rose from their hastily dug fighting positions and took to ground. To Angron's left and right squads of his sons lay into other siege beasts, hacking and sawing at the bodies to bring them down, using the chains attached to their weapons to restrain the beasts arms, to trip their legs, and then hacking away with their falchions, axes, and chain blades.

The tide had not yet turned, but the Lord of the XIIth had given the Auxillia enough breathing room to begin a counter-attack in earnest. Angron took a bounding step forward, swinging the axed wide with one hand, cleaving ten of the lesser Xenos in half with a single blow. On the return stroke he cleaved and smashed seven more. Another of the siege beasts began to charge from thirty meters away and Angron grasped the handle of Recompense, blasting the creature in the face and turning the head into a mass of charred boned, cooked flesh, and burning ash. I almost gasped when the third beast closed the distance, approaching from Angron's flank, it was upon him before he had even turned, but I should have never doubted my brother for he turned at the last instant and releasing his plasma pistol smashed the hawkbill into the creature's face, punching through the plate of steel depicting the most vile acts of prurience I had seen committed to any medium and dragged it down.

"I am Angron, lord of the red sands, master of the War Hounds, conqueror of worlds! By what right do you exist xeno filth?" He bellowed at the creature.

One of the arms of the creature came forward to grasp at him, but Angron simply released his right hand from his axe, pulled the pugio from his right hip and filleted the arm open, cutting through the connective tissue of the wrist and elbow. He then twisted the haft of the axe pulling the hawkbill free with a chunk of skull and flesh as he did so then stepped the side of the giant head and sunk hawkbill through the base of the skull with a might two handed swing, striking with such force as to knock three of the eyes out of the creature's skull and shatter the plate-teeth in the upper and lower jaw.

I lifted my sword above my head, "Sons of Sanguinius! To the Red Angel! Attack!"

I planted my feet, and spread my wings, jumping as I beat them down and in a moment I was off the ground and soaring above the lines of battle, the thin line of our forces born down upon by the sea of the Xenos driven by their twisted bloodlust. The number seemed…insurmountable, thing as our lines were, our forces in the midst of their redeployment, a fraction of the number needed to stem this tide.

To my left I saw the 8th Assault Company in advanced, their captain, and first captain of the legion, Kharn the Bloody, equerry to my brother, was advancing through his foes at a full sprint with the brothers of his assault company on his heels, driving deep into the enemy's advance. The warsmiths of Angron's legion well understood the combat appetites of his sons and provided a steady stream of crude but effective hatchets, cleavers, falchions, gladiuses, and falcatas and the like for the direct purpose of slaking their desires for close combat without needing to constantly repair or replace maintenance-intensive chain weapons or rare and precious Power weapons. The Bloody first captain bore two falcatas, one in each hand, lashing out which slash, chop, hack, and stab as he pushed forward at a run. He was like a pellet of iron parting water, dragged inexorably into the sea of Xenos and disrupting the surface tension for his company which just seemed to run over any of the Xenos foolish or unfortunate enough to be in the path of their advance. Like an iron pellet the ocean provided no resistance to his path, pulled by the gravity of his own peculiar blood lust that manifested nowhere but in battle against a true foe.

Off to my right, my own son, Nassir Amit cut not quite so quick a path into the foe as he did a far wider one. In his right hand, his power sword flashed, parting the Xenos bodies while in the left chain-fist the carbide teeth whirred and the bolt-pistol chattered. It was clear his purpose, to establish a foot-hold and deny the foe the advantage of the shallow rise from which our forces could fire down into their lines. Nassir took relish in his work, and he slaughtered with a thoroughness I found disturbing, his was a fury that mimicked that on Angron but with an almost sadistic glee that drove him to break and despoil the foe, taking more satisfaction in the level of destruction to a foe he caused rather than in quickness. Of course, this did have a psychological effect against most enemies, the parodies of rent flesh, shattered bone, and torn skin his blades left could weaken the heart of any but the most stalwart and this foe seemed to be no exception as they hesitated to rush him and his battle brothers.

Below me Angron was laying into another of the siege-beasts as support squads began to close around him, their auto-cannons barking as they sent death into the advancing foe. The siege monstrosities were focused on him now, all moving across the field to try to get to him in order to lay him low. Angron roared in defiance at them, spreading wide his arms as a parent did a child running to an embrace, as a friend did a long absent acquaintance, as a man did a woman who longed to be folded into his warmth. But Angron's invitation promised not comfort, but destruction, and as the first made it to him he grasped his axe in both hands, cocking it back behind his head to swing it forward with alarming alacrity, the whirling teeth opening skin as the sharpened frame split muscle and flesh opening the beast's gut from side to side as peristalsis pushed the twitching steaming gut out of the abdomen and into a pile in the dirt. The creature reflexively bent forward, it's clawed hands slicing apart its entrails as it tried to gather them back to push into its opened stomach. Angron spun the axe in his hand and swung again, the hawkbill gouging out the creature's face with an arching swing.

My brother either ignored or missed the second of the group and I heard a cry of pain and fury from him as the long claws raked his back, cutting through armor to open bright red wounds on his back. No Warhound was to present their back to an enemy, I knew this would be a sore spot for him, but, I would remind him, that this belief did not account for an enemy so cowardly as to flank. Angron spun swinging his left fist wide to strike the beast in the face, denting its helmet as popping three of the eyes, its brown blood and watery humors of the eyes pouring down its face. It recoiled away and I dove, my sword finding purchase in its neck and passing through, the head lifting from the stump of the neck and I grabbed hold with my left hand, lifting it free and tossed it back and into its brethren before landing next to my brother who swung furiously into the press of the enemy.

"Angron, are you alright?"

"I am fine, brother!" He spat, his rage barely controlled enough to speak.

When his eyes met mine I saw the fury was directed away from me, instead there was something almost, joyous there. He opened his blood-stained lips and spoke again, "Come brother, fight beside me! Let us to this slaughter!"

This was how he knew to embrace me, how he could express himself, I, his precious brother who he longed more than anything else to fight beside, we…the two angels making holy this befouled field in righteous slaughter. Casting my eyes back to the ridgeline I saw our sons, cousins to one another, pouring down the slope weapons raised on high, charging to meet the foe, to crash back into the tide. To our right Nassir the Flesh Tearer pushed the pocket deeper into the Xenos, to our left the First Great Company of the XIIth with Kharn at the fore sliced deep into the Xeno lines, turning a pair of flanks now so that the divided portions of the army could be worn down, picked apart, and set upon by our combined legions and the doggedly fighting auxilia.

"Yes, brother! Let us put them all to the blade!" I echoed as an enthusiasm I could not explain took me, this was the only just fate for these defilers and vitiates.

* * *

It took four days to fight into the hive itself, another two to reach the tower, in that time Angron had not once stopped in his inexorable push, Sanguinus never faltered in his step, at his side the entire time as hundred…thousands…tens of thousands fell to his axe and his brother's sword. The further in they reached, the greater the vile excesses they witnessed, the shrines to the debased form of their god we broken under boot as the Xenos attempted some dying rituals in devotion. Excess, carnality, base dissoluteness and libertinism that sought to satiate their god's hungers.

When they encountered such, they became the defilers, casting down the icons and slaying the worshipers in the throes of lascivious activity all they met they killed. Great chambers filled with pupal forms of their offspring, hatched as mindless larvae that existed only to feed until maturation were put to the torch, burner units laying into them with flaming promethium and melta blasts until all had cooked to ash. This was the judgement for their excess.

A master of signal approached, his white ceramite muddied with the blood of the foe, his boots trailing gobbets of still warm brown flesh and tatters of their ultra violet skin. The Warhound approached and knelt, "Sire."

"Stand up," Angron growled, "I am your commander, not a lordling that requires supplication."

The astartes stood, his chain sword browned and caked with the Xeno filth, the great antenna sprouting from the back of his armor's power plant bedecked with a pennant of the First Great Company.

"Auspex and Augury detect all Xenos have been purged, sire."

"Where is my Equerry?" Angron grunted.

"On the outskirts of the hive, sire, he was pursuing and put to the sword those that sought to escape the hive."

"Issue a recall to him, I must convene with my captains here in the spire to discuss the next phase of the assault."

"As you will it." The Master of Signal declared, clapping a fist on his chest plate with a lowered helmet and departed.

Angron pressed his back to the wall and slid down into a seated position, allowing his eyes to drift shut. Sanguinus watched him as he did, an inexplicable expression of contentment on the Red Angel's face.

"Say it…whatever it is…say it and get it over with, brother." Angron declared, not opening his eyes.

"I was just thinking, our forces are well matched, Angron."

He let out a rough chuckle, "Oh, aye, they are…any two other legions would have taken a month for this. Still, I cannot overcome the belief that the fair sons of the angel do not fit so well with my hounds."

"Our ideals differ, but the methods…" Sanguinius offered off-handedly.

"We are similar in that regard if no other. Your son's are better warriors than I would have thought."

Sanguinius bristled at this, "What would lead you to believe otherwise?"

"You…" Angron opened his eyes, a feeble grin cracking his mouth, "you're too damn pretty."

Angron chuckled again, his lips still drawn into an almost rictus grin. Sanguinius muttered a chuckle then started laughing, it was absurd, it wasn't particularly funny, but after one hundred forty four hours of constant fighting, anything seemed amusing that gave some outlet to an emotion other than rage and indignity. Sanguinius sunk down against a pillar, opposite his brother and close his own eyes, allowing a mote of exhaustion to take hold into relaxing his eyes. His own golden armor was caked in brown and dark dried-blood red, identical in many ways to Angron's. After a few minutes of blessed rest he heard the sound of Angron sliding his axe across the floor and he opened his eyes as Angron continued to admire the weapon.

"Well, Rogal…the oath still stands, one of these days I will break this, but apparently it was not this day."

As he looked at the axe-head he noticed on the relief of the mountain peak an area where the brown Xenos blood had caked and moved his hand across it to wipe it away clearing it from the raised area and leaving vestiges in a faintly scribed word he had not noticed before. He ran his gauntleted thumb across his tongue and re-applied it to the area clearing away the filth enough to reveal the words Fedan Mhor scribed in such fine letters as to be indistinguishable from the details of the relief.

He grit his teeth, feeling tightness in his throat, a burning in his eyes. Emotions, long since dulled by the nails, came back to him with shocking intensity; sorrow, frustration, defeat, but also…catharsis, a unique catharsis. Fedan Mhor represented not a failure he had earned but one force upon him, and in this failure there was a lesson, a lesson as only Dorn would teach it, _never let an oath be broken again, never leave your men to fall again._

"What is wrong, Angron?"

He shifted his blurred eyes to the Angel, moisture hot against his cheeks, "I think it is time I made peace with my other brothers."


	6. Capitulum V

Klye Bransonch didn't understand politics, didn't understand statecraft, didn't understand the rationality as to why his little country was going to war with the biggest and most powerful nation on the world. In the past they'd always escaped their predation, when he was a boy it was said they survived always where other countries fell because they were a hardy and tough people, hardened by centuries of privations living on their islands, wresting survival and some small measure of prosperity from the seas. It was said they alone could truly claim its bounty, they alone could withstand its fickle nature, the displacement of schools of fish, the battering waves, the storms. They were superior not because of wealth or resources, but because they got by on little and survived in spite of the conditions that would have withered lesser peoples.

When he became a man he realized that because they had nothing they were not worth taking, that the cost would outweigh the gain, this was the true reason they still stood alone and independent where other nations had fallen to the Great Central Empire of Barut. But something had happened, and the government that had long seemed something superfluous had called a conscription levy, there were promises of great prosperity to come from the stars and allies that would help them crush Barut and set themselves as the master of fate for the world.

Rather than wait for his turn in the levy to come, sitting in anticipation for a conscription order that may never come, he'd volunteered in a stab of truly self-mortifying fatalism. For he did not believe the story of allies from beyond the stars, he'd never believed the myths that humans came from a faraway world long, long ago. He knew that this was the world where humans had always lived, that the myths were just that; myths, there was no more claim on the part of humanity to the galaxy than he had to a plantation in the fertile lands of Barut. Even with allies from other nations, it would not take Barut long to crush them all and the repercussions of an imminent loss would be dire indeed, better then to die fighting the Barutians where they lived and in so focusing on killing this old foe, perhaps a miracle could happen, but he would not wait for one, he'd take his one grip on fate and either shake it loose or let it shake him apart in turn.

For Private Klye Bransonch of the 323rd Marine Weapons Company, fate seemed to be very close this day, more so than any other. The crude airfield the Barutian 3rd Expeditionary Force had established on Bediuan Island was too heavily defended and he had to take some cold measure of introspective comfort in knowing he would die before he started watching the Mikroi Federal Republic begin to lose territory and whole towns' worth of sons. He didn't leave a wife or children, he had another brother and a sister to care for their mother should the Barut somehow be defeated or chose not to invade the entirety of Mikroi. All these things occurred to him as he continued the fight, the chatter of automatic weapons, the harsh report of his own rifle and others like it, the screams of the dying, the din of explosions and petroline engines, the heat of the sun burning above and below as if reflected off concrete and sand, the grit of soil and sand and rock thrown across the battlefield from artillery and mortars and field-gun fire.

"Right one five, down two."

He grasped the 60 millimeter mortar from his ammunition pouch and held it over the tube, "Hang round." He shouted.

"Drop!"

He released the round and it slid down the tube and the primer ignited setting off the propellant charge with a pop and the round shot out, missing an oncoming enemy tank but striking amid a cluster of infantry surrounding it.

They had displaced three times, displaced…they had retreated, they were falling back, they didn't have the operational strength to dislodge the forces around the well defended airfield, but there was nowhere to fall back to anymore, into the flattened stands of trees then back to the beach, and there they would be overrun. They were outnumbered eight to one at full strength, and his company was far below strength now, none of the other Mikroi Marine Companies had made it this far inland, they would be slaughtered, but he was not about to accept death calmly, he would fight until the end, which would come soon.

* * *

"I trust you to my brother Vulkan, your fury is well matched to that of his sons."

"Father-"

"I am not your father, Kheyan, I am your primarch and commander."

"Of course, sire…I know…do you send me away because I am a psyker?"

His lord had let out a harsh chopped laugh…he seemed to laugh more now, speak more calmly, even when the pounding of the nails was so pronounced that his other sons could feel it, "No, Kheyan, I send you to learn more, I have seen you in the cages, you fight as furiously as the best of the Hounds and better than most, but they tell me you neglect your witch-gift even though you are immensely powerful as such things are measured. I send you to fight with my brother's Salamanders because along-side your cousins you may learn to additionally temper your abilities through necessity."

He had lowered his head in a display of shame that his lord would rarely countenance, "I hate it…being a psyker."

He had expected a blow, Angron did not suffer warriors showing shame or lowering their eyes, but none came, "Why?"

"It is unnatural." Then, he had ventured, "You hate psykers."

"It is also a weapon, there is little more that can be taught to you about the blade or bolter or of strength of arms you have not already learned and mastered, but you have another weapon in this witch-gift and you must hone it, become the war hound your potential dictates, then return stronger." Blood had begun to drip from Angron's nose and he had wiped it away on the back of his gauntlet. "And I do not hate you, Kheyan."

He had not yet had the chance to fight alongside the drakes, when the transfer had occurred the XVIIIth had been in the midst of transfer to compliance of a cluster of some thirty worlds, all in various stages of primitive development. Lord Vulkan had split his legion into various battalions each dedicated to compliance of a world that was not ready to accept Imperial Rule, this world in question was post-industrialization, but was still primitive, subdivided along national and regional identities, their industry supplemented agrarian concerns and military conflict, they had not yet sent up even primitive rockets into space. Representatives of the XVIIIth and Auxilia had made overtures to a number of nations, all of which were ready to accept compliance, but there still stood a single strong military empire that would have to be crushed and dislodged before the world could be brought fully to compliance. Lord Vulkan sought to honor alliances, and as the various nation states rose up against the planet's primary empire, he had detailed Kheyan's forces and the Salamanders he served beside to assist them. Even now he sat in the hold of a Thunderhawk as it descended towards a small island where forces of one of the hardy independent oceanic nation states struck against the Barut Empire.

"Cousin?"

He opened his eyes to look into the onyx face of Zabual, a sergeant of the 38th Battle Company's Fire Drake detachment, his Tartaros pattern armor resplendent with brass accents depicting the heraldry of their legion and the fire and drakes of their world. "We are two minutes from target, prepare yourself."

"Aye."

The fire drake nodded, smiling as he did, the good nature of his legion showing even in these preparations for battle.

To Kheyan's left and right sat five more Warhounds, each outfitted with a chain blade a slung phobos pattern bolter and holstered phobos pattern bolt pistol along with a pair of melta-charges. There were other weapons as well; Jeus carried a meteor-hammer, Bron had a pair of hatchets, Kord a chain flail. Their role was to be a spearhead element that would destroy the hardened positions of the foe while the Salamanders began their advance. The Fire Drakes forming the belly of the spear-blade while the pyroclasts and astartes of the XVIIIth swept up the enemy infantry elements. Elsewhere in the offensive force his other battle brothers were divided into squads of 5 to perform the same role, moving ahead of the Salamanders to breach and destroy enemy positions and hard-targets. Thirty of Dorn's sons were also among this element, the stolid warriors of the VIIth equipped with breacher shields to act as a mobile fortification for the apothecaes and communication element.

Zabual lifted his thunder hammer from where it was sitting on the deck of the Thunderhawk and spoke in a loud tone to be heard over the sound of the ship's engines. "Remember, our allies also lay siege to the airfield, you will mark them by their olive uniforms and camouflaged helmets, we cannot commit ourselves to saving them, but at the same time, we should do what we can to avoid harming them."

Kheyan rested his hand on the hilt of his Dussack and took a series of deep breaths as he began to feel the tingling itch in his eyes as he began to draw forces of the immaterium around him. The fans in his helmet kicked on as the heat began to rise inside the enclosure, he felt a series of what seemed to be static snaps in his brain as the powers of the warp sparked from the nails driven into his brain. He was one of the few psykers in the legion that had opted to receive the Butcher's Nails and while some said they drove psykers berserk or destroyed their minds, he'd never found them to be much more an occasional annoyance when his witch-gift sparked at their edges, a moment of peculiar discomfort that permeated his body for a split second when the snaps occurred, odd but not painful. Angron had tried to discourage the psykers from taking the nails, as he had his sons until he finally enacted a prohibition against the implantation after Leman Russ had accosted them on Ghenna. He still remembered the treasonous words Angron had challenged Russ with, but he had to admit, they did make a great deal of sense. Compliance was an odious concept when looked at through the lens of an individual right of self-determination, tithe levies were a form of slavery as many of the tithed guard and auxiliaries were not free to leave their position, relegated to stay in the levied regiments and tercios until deemed no longer of use or of more use elsewhere or until death rendered their duty discharged. Worlds of little worth, people of no substantive value were forced into compliance or death for no other reason than the face they shared; a genomic base similarity, they were humans and humans were to serve the Empire and of course any and all other races were to be slaughtered.

The discomfort the Nails caused was a fair trade off for the feeling of indestructible fearlessness they gave him, if anything they eliminated his willingness to pull on his psychic powers as he rarely found himself taking the time to concentrate on them. Perhaps that was what Angron spoke of, he needed to turn the usage of his abilities into something reflexive, something he would do even while under the ecstasy of the nails' call to battle.

* * *

Klye looked to his right and left as he heard the sudden absence of weapons fire coming from the cover behind which he and his fire-team were arrayed. For a moment he'd almost reflectively assumed they were all dead and he found no real lack of solace in the concept that he would be next in a matter of moments. But the firing hadn't stopped because of their death but rather because a strange sound seemed to echo behind and just slightly over the sounds of battle.

It was a distant growl slowly building to a roar, it seemed to come from everywhere at once, as if the sky and air itself was expressing distaste over the bloodshed occurring on this small spit of land in the pale blue green oceans that lay under it. He could almost feel it in his skull, like something heavy was weight down on the atmosphere, and when he looked up he saw streak of smoke high in the sky, like a rocket's contrail on a cold morning from films he had seen as a child. The contrails stopped, but he thought he saw small dots far off in the blue, descending…falling would perhaps be more apt. What could get so high in the sky, it had to be miles up? The planes that existed couldn't go that high that he knew of, behind him he could hear another roar, throaty and deep and punctuated by a scream, not a thing that could come from a human throat or any creature he knew of, it was unending. As he looked back through the bent and shattered palms he saw huge shapes skirting over the water, fifty or sixty feet above it, almost like a plan but too big and too blocky, it was huge…huge as a boat, painted green with a huge reptile's head painted in white on the nose.

Did Barut have such aircraft? Were they being flanked? Was this the end? If Barut had vehicles like this, what could they do to stop them? This was it, they'd all be killed, and Mikroi would be next on the path of Barut's consolidation…there were no allies from beyond, none of the other countries would come to their aid, he'd die here today without them having put a dent in Barut, without even giving a proper accounting of themselves. All that was left now was surrendering to despair or…to kill out of spite. He went back to the sights of his rifle when he noticed that even the Barut were frozen in awe of what was occurring, looking up to the sky as the strange falling objects got bigger, strange tear-drops of metal, nearly a dozen of them…all falling towards the ground. He started to take aim when the scream and roar of the approaching aircraft almost deafened him, a blast of hot air washed around him, pushing down and throwing dirt and debris around, he looked up to see one of the great green aircraft holding stationary above him, a furnace blast of wind blowing down at them as a ramp dropped at the aircrafts nose and from down the ramp came giants, jumping twenty feet to the ground. They were shaped like men, but covered from head to toe in what looked like tank armor. Five wore dirty white with dark flat blue accents on their shoulders, huge packs on their backs made of the same armor belching hot air from a pair of exhaust vents. Behind them came more of the giants in the same green as the ship, their armors mostly ornate and accented in black and brass with stylized flames painted on some of them. The biggest of them carried giant shields texture with what looked like lizard hides and huge sledge hammers. One of them turned its head, red eyes glowing through its mouthless helmet like some ancient warrior regarding him specifically for a moment then he started sprinting with the four other giants in white armor towards the Barut lines.

Klye could feel an oppressively murderous intent directed towards the Barut lines and the Barutian Expeditionary Forces started to fire after a moment of panic. The bullets didn't even phase the giant as it charged, a curved blade in one hand, a mammoth pistol in the other. He aimed the pistol at a knot of Barutian soldiers and fired, a loud pop then a hiss accompanying the firing as a large brass casing kicked out of the weapon, the Barutian soldier exploded from the waist up, the force of the detonation of…whatever it was…knocked down five other soldiers around him. One of the giants in green pointed some sort of weapon with an oblong bore at another group of Barutian soldiers and a trail of translucent orange speared into one of infantry men, a loud screech pierced the air as soldier instantly turned into sparking ash, the soldiers around him caught fire, one the two closest lost limbs in a cloud of ash their screams quickly choked off as they fell to the ground.

The light tanks tried firing at the slower plodding giants with the shields, one brought up his shield as the 57mm projectile struck, the giant halted, staggering a half step as the round struck high on the shield tipping it back in his mighty hand, but it righted the shield, straightened its knees, and continued onward. More of the green giants, maybe twenty, in plain armor moved over to where Klye and his squad remained ducked behind a mound of dirt and rock, firing their equally giant rifles at the Barutians. Klye and the remainder of the 323rd were too stunned to add their fire, he wasn't even certain it would be of benefit at this point. One of the giants in the white and blue armor was tearing one of the tanks apart…literally…tearing it apart with some sort of growling blade, the edge covered in hooked teeth moving on a track. From behind their line, Klye saw a group of more giants, these in armor of yellow with black and brass accents, they all carried large shields, thick and large enough to cover nearly their entire bodies, their armor was more like the giants in white and blue and the normal green armored giants that had taken up position around him. They marched shoulder to shoulder in perfect unison, their movements almost mechanically precise as they fired their rifles over a notch in the shield, when they cleared the cover they split into groups of two, each forming a chevron as the green warriors around them fell in behind the cover they had produced and began to march forward.

The giants in yellow had an icon of a clinched fist on their thick plate of their right shoulder and the armor plate on their face was thicker, otherwise the armor was identical to that of the warriors in white and green though even more spare as utilitarian in terms of details and accents. Klye almost jumped when another warrior walked up to them, he was not holding a weapon in his hands, but he bore a thick gauntlet with numerous cruel looking weapons on it, and a small glass screen like he had seen in televisors the few times he had seen one. The giant was followed by a floating skull, a red light coming from one of the empty eye sockets and a series of segmented metal what looked to be tentacles and blunt pinchers hanging down from it. The giant took a knee in front of him, and from a screen near the throat piece of the armor a voice issued. The voice was deep, and grating, but it did not speak loudly, the tongue it spoke was Anglian, or something like it.

"Have you suffered injuries."

Klye stared in awe, how did the giant known Anglian or some derivative of it?

"What?"

"Are you hurt?"

The giant wore white armor, but unlike the others in white his shoulder plates were green with brass accents and the white icon of the reptile head on one. On the knee plate and opposite shoulder a series of three squares turned to touch bottom to top at the verticies with a pair of stylized wings were present in brass or gold in relief on the shoulder and in the same green as the other giants on the white plates at his knees.

"What are you?"

The giant reached up and pressed something on its helmet, a hissing sound issuing forth as he lifted it off. Klye felt his eyes widening to the point he didn't think he could open them anymore as he stared at the coal-black skin and glowing red eyes. It was the face of a man, but like no man he'd ever seen.

"We are your allies from beyond; you were told of our existence, yes?" The giant's voice was boundlessly deep but seemingly gentle, patient but obviously indicating the need for haste.

"You came from the stars?" Klye couldn't believe it, there had to be another explanation.

"We did, we have been tasked by the Emperor of Mankind to bring this world to compliance, and to make you that will accept the Imperial Truth the new guardians of its destiny."

"But-"

"Are you hurt, have you suffered injury?"

To his right one of the men from his squad, Jhotanan, lifted his right arm, a brutal gash had ripped through his uniform and taken an obvious chunk from his forearm, the skin and flesh tattered. The giant made a clucking sound and reached into a pouch at his belt, pulling out a small cylinder which he opened and held upwards as the floating skull reached in with a pair of long, narrow plyer like hands and began to unroll the bandage. He then tapped a few keys on his horrific gauntlet and a needle emerged.

"This will sting a little for a human, but it will prevent sickness taking to the flesh and bone." He injected it into his arm with a quick poke and fluid rushed from a small vial into the needle. A second item emerged, a nozzle like one would see on a water atomizer and sprayed on the wound. The skull drew closer and they all recoiled.

"Oh, do not mind him, he is my medical assistant." The Giant declared with a slight upward cock of the corner of his mouth, a smirk…it was a smirk, just like a human would do.

"Is that skull…real?" Klye asked, needing to confirm his suspicion.

"It is, it belongs to a medicae menial, a mortal human like you, he served at my said for sixty standard years, when age and infirmity began to take him he made me swear to him that when he died we would repurpose his skull to use as a servitor."

They stared at the giant agape, the idea was ludicrous, bizarre, it was a machine that floated in the air and could perform fine tasks built on a skull.

"In this way, my friend still serves beside me to this very day." The giant took the slack of the bandage and the skull's forceps released one end and he quickly wrapped it twice around the arm before lifting the loose end again, the pincher grasped the loose end then released the other as the giant performed two more wraps from the other direction. He alternated back and forth until Jhotanan's arm was wrapped completely in a precise over-under fashion. The giant arched a brow as he looked down at the dressing, then stood.

"The medicae will arrive shortly, when you show it to them, tell them an apothecary dressed the wound, they will know what to do." He took a step towards the field of battle, reaching down to unclamp his helmet where it had stuck to his belt.

"Wait!" Klye exclaimed, the being turned to look back at him, both brows arched, "Are you human?"

The Giant smiled, his lips pulling back to show white human teeth, the expression unmistakably one of mischievous mirth, "That is difficult to explain."

* * *

The mortal allies of this world were outnumbered and outgunned, that much was certain upon reaching visible range of the island. They were pinned down by overwhelmingly superior forces but they were electing to still fight in spite of the odds. They may not have had a choice, he did not have time to give consideration to such things, these enemies had spat upon compliance, even with their limited technology they were so haughty as to believe that they were undefeatable, this hubris required sanction.

He fired on the advance, but he longed for close combat, close combat he found as a horde of enemy soldiers rushed from another part of the airfield to respond to their sudden and overwhelming attack. He was amidst them before they even had time to react, his Dussack was already in his right hand, and the Butcher's Nails snapped with the psychic spark cued by his aggression. He struck out, moving on instinct and as his training dictated, not even aware of each move and blow, and before he knew it, the concrete was slick with blood and none of the foe were still standing.

The Vox in his helmet crackled, the sound distorted by the fans pushing cooled air into the helmet and by the effects of the threads of the immaterial he pulled, "Kheyan, fall back to regroup, we have spotted a bunker complex."

He growled, the nails pulsed, there were still more foe to kill, he wanted to hunt, to range.

"There are plenty to kill still, brother, fall back to the approach edge of the hanger."

Angron wanted to test him, to see how much further he could push himself, could he become the hound their primarch wanted him to be, recalcitrance was not the mark of a good hound. He turned and ran back, his dussack scattering drops of blood as he went, the nails hammered, he felt the control teeter, then he almost felt Angron's voice booming over him, _Fury can be a club or it can be a scalpel, rage can be a light that fills a room or be a laser, hate care tear down walls or set the foundation._

Precision, focused fury, control the nails as they control you, let the fury build, direct it, unleash it. The very presence of their Primarch was enough to make the members of the librarius quake in the pain his proximity brought, the nails themselves seemed like a wound in the immatterium that left them weaker and drawn, and he'd forced them to overcome it, enduring the pain that pyskers caused by their presence that set the nails in his head to biting as they learned to endure the pain and focus through it.

Thus he had trained them and alternately sent them to train with the librarians of his brothers' legions and brought librarians from other legions to visit with their own battle brother auxiliaries as part of the constant transfer of personnel among the exclusive brotherhood of the dauntless to which their legion had been initiated. Tempering his sons on every level to become the Legion they needed to be, the legion they had come to want to be; beloved, honored, and respected by their cousins and, most of all, subtly cherished by their primarch, general, and gene-father.

 _Be the scalpel, be the laser, be the foundation…fury, rage, and hate in focus, controlled, channeled._

As he rounded the corner he heard the shout over the vox.

"Kheyan, look out!"

* * *

It wasn't a pillbox at all, not a part of the bunker, it was a monstrous as-hoc siege weapon, the round metal housing layered in iron-bar lattice then set over with concrete, a tracked labor vehicle served to propel it and inside was a quartet of fire-linked autocannons. They had believed it was a fixed pillbox and even then it would have been bad enough against an advance of regular astartes, the attempt to get the Fire Drakes close enough had been a disaster in degrees with one brother killed outright and two others severely burned when the promethium tanks were struck and cooked off. Their attack had faltered when it rolled up from behind a sand-bag barrier, mobile where it should have been stationary and the hail of high-explosive autocannon rounds had scythed through the advance. From its position relative to the advance, it had managed to halt nearly seventy astartes as the punishing high-caliber projectiles tore into them with such ferocity that even the Firedrakes were halted. Only Dorn's sons held fast, forming a shield wall to compensate for the lack of cover behind which most of the Salamanders had arrayed themselves.

Angron's sons were attempting to flank the gun platform but each time they drew forward a set of autocannons would train on them, forcing them back to cover. Zabual was preparing to call the Thunderhawks back down when he the Warhound Codicier rounding the corner, his shout through the Vox came out just as the autocannons swiveled to lay into him.

* * *

From where Klye sat, he'd seen one of the giants in the white armor dash off towards a hanger, his speed was alarming, nothing that big in armor that thick should have been able to sprint that fast, then the world had seemed to come apart, the bark of four anti-aircraft cannons firing rapidly seemed to weigh down the atmosphere, shots struck the giants, some of them fell, others caught fire, the stream of cannon shells ripped past them, striking some of the men in his company and they just seemed to come apart. Barut was rallying, beginning a counter-attack, the lighter tanks that had fallen back were starting to rally, Barut infantry falling in behind them.

Then the giant in white that had dashed ahead of the others was back, unlike the others his armor had a large metal cowl that came from the back-mounted motor to partially cover his head and the helmet seemed larger than the others with additional exhaust fans. He came around the corner of a bunker with a sword reddened with blood in his right hand, single edged with a fat blade and a slight curve, then the cannons fired at him, shifting from the yellow giants with the shields and all four cannon barrels began firing at their quick cycle rate.

He wasn't sure what he saw, what happened, if he could believe it, he tried to force himself awake when the giant lifted both hands towards the rolling turret and the cannon rounds began to explode in pops of bright white and blue meters away from the giant. It was as if he was holding them back with a gesture and pure will, he couldn't believe it as he saw blue light and smoke begin to come from the eye lenses of the helmet.

* * *

The nails ticked and bit the moment he perceived it all, the stricken Salamanders in the dirt and sand, two still burning with licks of flames from exploded promethium tanks. He sensed the intent of the gunners and instinctively ripped at the edges of the immaterium to ward him from the weapons fire he sensed coming his way, the heavy explosive rounds blowing themselves to pieces against the barrier of thin un-reality he created, and it was then the nails bit, and the rage came.

The distance was too great to charge, and focusing on the barrier he could only creep forward step at a time, he saw his battle brothers rise and begin forward, two pyroclasts of the stricken squad did the same and instantly one took a light-tank round in the chest for his efforts, the high velocity round blew through his armor, rupturing his fuel tank setting aerosolized promethium in a cloud behind him as the round detonated, creating a sudden fuel-air flash and knocking the warrior flat, but avoiding igniting the other tank of promethium.

 _kill_

 _Kill_

 _KILL_

 _KILL, MAIM, BURN!_

 _Blood for the blood thirst, a throne of skulls to the triumphant!_

He felt the need to push the barrier forward, to set the world to fire, to call all the power he could into him and just let himself explode in fury. His vision reddened, the perimeter of his field of view blurring, he wanted to kill and kill and kill until there was nothing left _to_ kill. Then he could hear Angron's charge; to focus the fury, the rage, the anger, to turn it into a defined weapon that could be applied asymmetrically in a very precise fashion.

Still with the distance…he must shorten it, focus all his rage on shortening the distance, striking at a single point, letting his rage track the subtle fissures of the material, to crack and break, rend, crush, destroy. The nails were singing now, for he'd formed the plan and began pulling at the weave, pulling strings of unreality through the fabric of reality, and forcing the latter into the former, twisting everything, he was faintly aware of the claws reaching at him, trying to take him, to pull him under or to cling to him to be pulled into the living realm, the howling machinations of unlife and unreality clamored for him, but they were nothing to his rage, his indignity, his howl of fury, and then everything snapped.

* * *

Klye watched in awe as the giant in white with the great metal cowl began to blur, as if he was captured as a single frame of movement against a static backdrop, and a blue flame began to dance over his body, but as if moved by a steady gust of air, pulled back and seeming to trail him even as he stood still, it was like he was moving faster than anything could move, so fast he had frozen himself in an instant of time, after-image of an event that occurred to quick for the eye or mind to perceive. From the giant sound began to build a bellow, a roar, a man spitting out his hatred at a foe with the sturdiness of his vocal chords and the power of his lungs. It drowned out everything, even the loud throaty bark of the cannons slid back and slunk away like some whipped cur from the heartiness of the giant's rage. The blue flashed, there was a sound of a crack that left the world momentarily silent, somewhere between lightning and a bullet and the ending of a world.

* * *

Zabual watched as the livid energies rolled over the warhound Codicier, he'd heard navigators describe in the past what it was like to feel the warp passing over the Gellar Fields, some described it as sliding through oil or sludge, some said it was drowning, still others had said it was being bathed in fire. This had intrigued him, and a few times he'd snuck his way into a part of his company's ship to view the entry into the warp where a shudder was always slow to close. As he watched now, he witnessed the blue bathing and running over Kheyan like he'd witnessed the flow and pulse of the warp. He'd seen this kill psykers before, or sometimes they would be taken by the Xenos that resided in the Warp and would have to be killed, even Astartes were not always immune to this, and part of him feared that the Warhound would meet the same fate when his very body seemed to stretch as an image, as if he was caught in the split second of unbelievable acceleration.

He vanished with a crack of air displacement and electro-static discharge and incredible speed. He hadn't even finished the sudden disappearance before they were assailed by the cacophony of destruction, of a hundred things being smashed and rent at once, of the utter and complete spindling of an object. And there, amidst it, standing in sand burned to black glass was Kheyan. The armor of the Manicae on his arm was gone, shattered away, blood dripping from split skin and burned fingers, his saber fading from white hot to a steaming dull red-grey. Scraps of the self-propelled auto-cannon turret hung in the air or were scattered across the sand, concrete powdered or cracked, chunked away or ground to pebbles, metal bent and twisted and tore, springs popped, bolts sheered, nuts flew off their threadings. The pure fury of the impact created a momentary air-displacement vortex, a vacuum that sucked one of the gunners part way through the firing port with such force that is blew off his clothes and avulsed his torso down its length as his shoulder caught on the edge and held in place as the rest of his frame was pulled through the opening.

Everything was silent, not a sound uttered, not a single eye pulled away, and save for the sound of settling metal, the wind, the water, and the distant report of weaponry, he would have thought he had gone deaf. The parts that remained levitated in the air fell in a further clatter as Kheyan lifted the still smoking blade over his head, shouting in guttural Nagrakali. His brother Warhounds roared their own ecstatic war-cries and immediately charged; sprinting towards the foe, fast even by the standards of Astartes, driven in fervor by the display of prowess and power of their battle brother. Chain swords roared as they cut into tanks that had been flanking the turret, shoving bolt pistols into rends in the light armor and discharging death into the vehicles as the hound named Jeus spun his meteor hammer in a wide circular arc, the chain whipping past with a buzzing woosh that could be heard as far as where he stood taking the supporting infantry and cutting them apart as the chain hammer scythed through them with such speed that the chain itself cut them in half. The battle was renewed, and with this push they could utterly break the morale of the foe and shore up that of the allied forces, the tales of the Giants from the stars and their battle prowess would serve to further cement their support.

Zabual lifted his thunder hammer in the air, bellowing to his battle brothers, "Salamanders! Brothers! To the hounds of Red Angron!"

The Salamanders cried out their battle cheer and moved forward as the shield wall of Dorn's sons quickly began a jogging advance to push up as the six Warhounds lay into the foe with almost joyous fervor.

* * *

Sixteen months amongst the XVIIIth Legion had seen Kheyan and the five battle brothers of his squad engage in eight planetary campaigns, fighting along-side legionnaires of Rogal Dorn's Fists, Leman Russ' Wolves, Magnus the Red's Thousand Sons, the sons of the Beloved Angel Sanguinius in the company of his Salamander cousins of whom he considered many brothers now. He'd shared blood oaths of kinship and fraternity among all the legions present, he had studied and fought along codiciers and epistolaries of all the legions present, he had been called the Lightning Hound and Kheyan the Bear-Shirt by the sons of Russ and their Rune Priests who had given to him a cloak of bear furs and had etched his pauldrons with the runes of Fenris. He had held his hand in the flames of the Archamusians, and taken the oaths of their order in fraternity, he'd flown the great ocean with Corvidae seers and shared blood-cups with the sons of Sanguinius. He returned to his legion a warrior, one of repute and great honors, whose name had come from the lips of the Primarchs Vulkan and Sanguinius whom had personally laid honors upon him for his conduct in the campaigns and compliances. When they arrived back to their task group, his five battle brothers had disembarked ahead of him, making a path for Kheyan the Lightning Hound, menials carried his oath parchments of one hundred eighty three oaths of moment discharged in his service with the XVIIIth while labor servitors wrestled the massive cannon barrel of a fortress-tank he had smote on the world designated 92-11 to be borne to the legion's museum as a battle honor. But more important than all of that, as his battle brothers ordered people aside, to make way for the Lightning Hound, he had earned the devotion and respect of his battle brothers and he had learned to tune to song of the Nails and in so doing had been able to produce unity of the song in his squad and this unity made them such an asset on the field of battle, all the ferocity and rage focused to a pin-point that could destroy and vanquish with such precision they were almost like a contained orbital bombardment when set loose, and their remit had been to act as just such a devastating piece of overwhelming force.

He had hoped he would have so proven himself as to gain the attention of his Primarch, longing for his approval, but when they disembarked on the _Adamant Resolve_ and later posted on the frigate _Fearless Resolution_ he had heard nothing from his gene-father. For a week he travelled back and forth between the frigate and the _Adamant Resolve_ to train in the cages and fight in the pit where Delvarus of the Triarii asked Kheyan to join him on the chain where they had faced any challenger who was willing to go to third blood.

He had been surprised when the hulking warrior came forward, "Come stand a chain with me, brother, the pits call."

He had never been accorded that respect before, much less from a warrior like Delvarus, but now he was no longer just Codidier II Kheyan, he was the Berserker, the Lightning Hound Kheyan and the tales of his battles had made it all the way back to his legion and were told in the practice cages and dueling pits of every ship in the legion fleet.

On the eighth day since his return he returned to his chambers on the _Fearless_ to find a suit of new armor in his arming chamber. It was the same Crusader Pattern as his old suit but instead of the hastily attached psychic hood the gorget had been artfully extended to form the complex neuro-reactive crystalline array. The white ceramite of his old manicae were replaced with brass accented manicae and on his pauldrons the icon of the Hound Rampant had been replaced with brass hounds with a crown of lightning bolts and on the right a carefully inlaid cross of stylized brass chains. On the armor a piece of parchment was affixed, the message was short in hastily scrawled Nagrakali;

Don your new armor and report to the Adamant.

-Kharn

When he arrived, arrayed in his new war gear Lhorke The First was awaiting him.

"Legion master."

The Revenant's voice, a thrumming machine tone that still seemed to possess far too much character to be considered truly artificial boomed forth, "I'm not the master of anything anymore, Kheyan. Come with me."

His frame began marching forward, a fresh scar marred the chest of his iron-form as he began his heavy stride towards the bay doors.

"Were you in battle, Lhorke?"

The Contemptor lifted his right arm in a gesture that might have been a shrug, "After a fashion, I fought with Angron in the pits."

Kheyan stopped in his tracks, "You fought with the Primarch?"

"He asked me if I wanted to, and I did."

There was much more to the tale than just that, he wanted to know and he wouldn't take another step until he had been regaled with the remembrance of the event.

"How did that come about?"

The dreadnought turned and a sound that could only be a sigh issued from the vox port on the chest of his iron form, "Two weeks ago, Angron was in the pits as is usual, and he took on twenty challengers at once. For thirty minutes he stood the center of the ring batting anyone who attacked away or tossed them about the arena, they came at him with live blades and they landed n'ery a touch on him, but they tried and tried valiantly."

Kheyan nodded, "And?"

"I told him he should pick on someone his own size." The dreadnought extended its power-fist, fingers open as if physically presenting a point, a physical mnemonic that indicated that The First's Iron Form was deeply in key with a mind that was still sharp and distinctive for a revenant of the Legion.

Kheyan's eyes widened, "What did he do?"

"He grinned at me and told me to hop down in the arena then, so I did…and I lost." The iron-form seemed to moved ever so slightly, almost as if Lhorke was manifesting the gesture of looking up and away, back to a moment of memory. "I did land a few good punches though."

"You struck the Primarch?"

The same buzz-sigh came out again, "He's been going to the pits the last fifteen years trying to get one of you to strike him, I'm just the first one that got close enough to do it."

Unbidden Kheyan's mind reached to the body that had once been Lhorke, to his memory of the end of the fight, Angron stood over his iron form, his right eye swollen shut from a blow to the head and blood pouring from his lips as he grinned with his steel teeth, "Rub a little oil on that one, Lhorke, the first black twist on your new rope."

"So you decided to keep the mark on your armor?" The codicier inquired.

"Aye, he fought me fair and he held back from causing the damage he could have, I lost fair and square."

After that they continued onwards to a small poorly lit access room, Lhorke gestured for Kheyan to enter then departed, moving down a side-corridor to the one they approached from. After a few moments a series of heavy footfalls made him wonder if Lhorke had been forced to come via a separate entrance when the dim light caught the brass accents of a massive suit of armor.

"Kheyan." Angron's voice was unmistakable, clearer and more sonorous than after his usual bouts of shouting which seemed to come upon him suddenly and unpredictably. Angron would shout during normal conversation such was the pain of the nails, he would shout and growl with a smile, bellow a joke, grit his teeth with a laugh, but now his tones were even and smooth, and light glinted from the steel teeth in his mouth as he approached.

"Sire." Kheyan replied, bowing his head in a nod.

"It is good you have returned, though I suspect my brother Vulkan would have liked to keep you."

He didn't know what to make of that specifically, he had met the Fire Lord once during his time with the Salamanders and had given it little thought beyond the gravity of meeting the Primarch of another legion personally. "Sire?"

"He spoke highly of you, Kheyan…as did the Angel, and when my dearest brother speaks highly of one of my men, it draws my attention."

"I fought hard to honor you and your legion, sire." Kheyan wasn't certain if he should be worried, it was sometimes so hard to accurately read the moods of the Lord of the Red Sands.

A massive hand clapped onto his pauldron, the acts of astartes and Primarchs were always violent in intensity but he felt what he could almost confused for a thread of tenderness in the act, "You have made me proud, Kheyan, you have made us all proud, Lightning Hound of the Twelfth."

The lights suddenly flashed into existence, revealing the Audaxia Primus into full view, the amphitheater filled with legionnaires who lifted fists and weapons and bellowed in salute. They had brought him here to honor him? He couldn't understand, he was just a warrior of the legion, why was he deserving of the recognition?

"In our legion…" Angron began, voiced raised to be heard throughout the amphitheater, "we have never had a very bright view of psykers, we have relegated them to secondary status, when the nails were put in some of you, a few of their number elected to feel the steel's kiss in their brains. Of those of us who were psykers, the results tended to end…poorly."

Many of the psykers who had taken the nails had died, some having wiped out entire squads in their death throes, it was something of a sore topic among the Librarius and among those who had lost comrades to the uncontrolled psychic reactions, Angron, however, had never issued sanction and forbade the discussion of such.

"Your brother Kheyan possesses the Butcher's Nails…but he had tamed them, he has defeated them, he had turned them to _his_ will and in so doing his battle brothers have had their nails guided by his focus and discipline."

Angron lifted his hands as he stalked around the stage, caught in his own oration. "Kheyan has conquered the nails, Kheyan _has conquered_ the nails! When the nails bite the flesh of his brain, Kheyan bites back, when the nails cry for blood to slake their thirst, Kheyan denies them the remit until they beg _him_ for release. No more a slave to the whim is Kheyan, Kheyan is free, and in being free he freed his brothers!"

There were more bellows of approval from the War Hounds assembled.

"The Psykers of Russ…his rune priests have honored him as the Bear Shirt, the same brother who confronted us on Ghenna has had the librarians of his legion honor Kheyan with the runes of power and the bear-skin mantle of the berserker, my brother Vulkan granted him a captain's remit in battle planning while his sons celebrated him as The Lightning Hound, the beloved Angel, my brother Sanguinius called him a warrior of the greatest peerage."

The Lord of the Red Sands spread his arms wide, "On the world called Muvizia, Kheyan harnessed the rage and earned the name by which he became known, smiting a war machine that had pinned down nearly fifty astartes including my brother Vulcan's elite terminators. On Muvizia his battle focus set the tone for the battlation he battle alongside and victories and honors were heaped upon them. On the world labeled ninety two eleven he and his hounds struck down an armored battalion with a brigade of supporting infantry that threatened to roll up the flanks of the advance, on the world we now know as Bellepheron he destroyed an entire regiment of enemies dug into the civilian population without spilling a drop of innocent blood but so thorough and ferocious was the destruction of the foe that the entire city and three more besides surrendered rather than face the white-clad war dogs."

The Primarch jerked the pugio from his belt and drew the blade across the span of his hand from the heel of the palm across to the base of the index finger, holding the hand high as the blood ran down, "Kheyan the Lightning Hound, Kheyan the Bear-Shirt…but to us he was just Codicier Secunda Kheyan. That is not the title for the Lightning Hound, is it?"

A roar of no's filled the amphitheater.

"No! Kheyan is no longer just a codicier, no longer just a battle brother, henceforth…I name you, Hound Keeper Kheyan!"

Angron closed his hand into a fist then opened it again as he placed the bloody hand-print on the chest of the armor, marking him, specifically, as a chosen hand of the Primarch himself.

The Primarch turned back and looked back out at the others, "When I came to this legion, Legion Master Ghreer told me of the ancient practice of war-dogs. A wolf may be cunning and ferocious…but a war-dog is the incarnation of persistence. A hound will run down its quarry no matter how far or how fast it runs, and once its jaws set, not even its death will ensure the release of its hold. Now a hound may be effective…but it requires a hand to train and guide it, one that will fight just as fiercely to ward its charges and ensure their success. The keepers of hounds, so shall this new title belong to those who can retain the control and command when the nails begin to sing. War hounds…"

As one the astartes straightened, giving their Primarch their full attention.

"Salute the Hound Keeper!"

* * *

Klye Bransonch had not seen Mikroi for nearly two years when the lighter touched down outside his town. He stepped off the ship piloted by Imperial Auxillia and a trio of servitors a far different person than he had been when he boarded a transport sea vessel over two years before. Instead of the rifle he had been issued he had a las-lock slung over his shoulder and instead of just the olive fatigues he had first been issued, he had a chest plate of carapace armor, instead of the badge of the 323rd Marine Weapon Company he wore the crest of the 1st Muvizia Guard regiment. Instead of looking up to the sky and thinking of only day and night, he now knew he was part of an Empire that spanned thousands of worlds and he had helped in securing this one for the Emperor he had taken an oath to serve.

There were many things he had seen that he would never be able to explain or if he attempted to do so nobody would believe him. He had seen giants and war machines the likes of which defied explanation, he had witnessed humans that had been changed into mythic beings wade into enemy fire and destroy entire companies of enemy soldiers on their own. He had fought beside them, bolstered by their own presence into acts of bravery he would have never been able to undertake on his own. He had even seen these same giants die in battle and had felt rage that anyone would dare to kill one of them. He'd witnessed them set on fire, witnessed them lose limbs, seen cannon rounds punch through their bodies and he'd seen them get back up and keep fighting.

He'd witnessed horrors and triumphs and everything in between. But more than anything he'd witnessed the future of his world and his people being forged and had been part of that process and no matter what came in the years to come, he knew that more than anything else he would be unable to adequately put into words; how he, Klye Bransonch had spent two years in the stride of giants fighting a war for their collective future.


	7. Capitulum VI

Hestus Borsod could have been an astartes, he was an unnaturally tall and broad man, hugely muscled and tireless he physically resembled the sons of the Primarchs in many ways, but when he said he could have been an astartes he was not referring to his physical form but the events of his life. Hestus had been born on Inwit twenty years after the arrival of the Imperial Expeditionary fleet over that world and after the Lord of the Inwitian Empire had been revealed to be a son of the Emperor of Mankind. To many it was not surprise to learn that Lord Dorn would be the son of such a god-like being. It was in his sixth Terran year that they had taken him. Taken was…an ugly word, his family was of a scavenger clan that lived in the shadow of the Ice Hives, a hard life but given their vassalage to the Ice Clan they always knew that they could rely on the charity of the Ice Clan to make it through a bad season. It had been the clan's traditional rest day when the deep thumping knock came against the seal of their hab-dome and when their father had opened the hatch they had been confronted in great slabs of gray armor in the shape of a man accented in brass and golden yellow iconography. He'd heard his mother whisper "astartes" which made no sense to him at the time then make the crux across her chest as his father gestured at the giant agape at the size of the being.

"I bring greetings from our Lord Dorn." The giant boomed, "it is my duty to inform you that your son has been called for the aspirant muster of the seventh legion."

He remembered mother had grown faint at this, her knees falling out from under her as she collapsed to the floor of the hab-dome, his father had dropped to his knees and plead, "Please, lord, he is our only son, our only child…"

He knew now that in some legions he would have been ripped away from them with nothing further said and intense violence had his parents attempted to interdict but in this case the giant had lifted one hand in a placating gesture, "Please, remain calm, mayhaps we may talk a moment and I will lay out our lord's case."

They talked for a while, none of it made any sense to him at the time and he still could not remember the nature of the conversation but his parents had finally relented with tear filled eyes. What he remembered more than anything though was the giant taking off his helmet and kneeling down to look him in the eyes, his face was lined and scarred but he grinned with a mouth of half-steel teeth with a twinkle in his eye and said, "What do you say, boy? Want to become as big and strong as me?"

Of course he did, what boy of six wouldn't?

As they left the hab the giant wrapped a big fur around him and handed him up to another of his kind leaning out of the hatch of an armored vehicle and before he ducked down to see what mysteries the vehicle held he witnessed the giant handing his father great bundle of what looked to be blankets, he knew now they consisted of rations, blankets, clothes, and carefully hidden fertility aids to ensure that they could conceive more children and he had heard the words he spoke even as he ducked down in the tank with a parting wave, not really understanding what was happening at the time. The warrior had said, "Give him some little brothers and sisters and tell them when they look up to the stars that their eldest brother fights to ensure their protection and a prosperous way of life."

And he did just that, he had now for fifty five years and once he had actually managed to see them all again, his mother and father old now, but he had three brothers and two sisters and thirteen nieces and nephews and he could still remember it all, the familial connection, because he had _not_ become an Astartes. The first few organ implantations had been successful and he had recovered quickly but when the hypnotraining and indoctrination began, there was an issue.

It was not the sort of issue many aspirant boys endured, rejection and mind-burn-out from the hypnotic implantation often resulted in the boys being rendered servitor meat or being subsequently destroyed, rather, in Hestus' case, it had simply _not_ worked. He experienced no pain, no sickness, no debilitation, but neither did he benefit, the hypnotic training simply did not work on him. The Biologans and apothecaries had initially been baffled by this, it was not until a battery of tests had been performed it was learned he had inherited an ancient and rare gene that prevented hypnotism, the flashing of lights or rhythmic applications of low frequency tones were little more than slightly annoying sensory input for him. They continued to train him through physical teaching for a number of years until it became readily apparent that while he _did_ possess the physical robustness and genetic purity the Astartes desired; he could not reach the martial proclivity despite his best efforts and those of his trainers. He spent the next fifteen years assisting the legion in the armorium as legion menial to their forge master until his proficiency with the mechanical components of armor and weapons was identified. He was promoted to the level of Armorer Tertia and given the task of working directly on the armor and weapons of the astartes he had once been so close to becoming and spent the next fifteen years doing just that. He existed in a strange middle ground between the mortal servants of the legion and the astartes masters, he lived among the "mortal" crew despite being at least partially astartes himself, his life span functionally quadrupled by dint of his enhanced physique and robustness. He had gone to war beside them, standing the field of battle during compliance after compliance, augmented in the heaviest of carapace, bearing forth a bolter of his own when such was called for and repairing armor and weapons in the field where needed.

It was in his first year as Armorer Secunda that he met the woman who would become his wife. Requiring one fourth the sleep of a normal human he took to performing extra duty tasks for the upkeep and maintenance of the Phalanx, hoping that in so doing he might eventually rise to the rank of Armorer Primus working side by side as equals with the astartes selected as apprentices to the Master of the Forge. Another menial technician and he had been performing maintenance on a bulkhead to the menial quarters in the bowels of the Phalanx with the man had lost his grip on a las-torch while attempting to turn it off and it had burned a deep gouge through Hestus' forearm. He was unsure what to do, the benefit of his largely astartes physiology was the he knew the wound would heal, but in the mean-time he had a three inch deep gouge through the muscle of his arm. He wasn't certain if he should go to the apothecaries, who would doubtlessly question why he was performing duties not specifically prescribed to him or the medicae who might not know what to do with astartes physiology.

She had sutured up the wound in his arm and told him to return the following ship-day so they could check for infection, of course by then the wound had healed but she insisted he return the following day so they could check again, at that point he assumed it was just because she wanted to see him again. Within a year they were married by the administratum tracking clerk and deep in the ship they had the unofficial ceremony in accordance with the Catheric beliefs she had been raised with and the ancient Inwiti Orthodoxy that was occulted through the legion in the crux iconography among the Templar brethren and Lord Dorn's own heraldry. Less than a year later their first son was born, and once again the legion came around for the tithe of sons, he still remembered it was Kye who came to their door on his seventh year and asked if they would allow him to become a son of Dorn like Hestus had almost been. But this time neither balked for Hestus knew that Dorn had guided the training and recruitment of his sons with a subtly gentle hand that resulted in far fewer deaths of aspirants when compared to other legions and his son was a very hearty boy owing to his own genes and the subtle manipulation of pre-geneseed organ implantation. At seven he was as big as some boys twice his age and while he inherited his strength and industriousness from him, from his mother he inherited studiousness and intellect. Two years after he was taken they had a daughter and another son three years later, then a third son just before they received unofficial word their son had received the geneseed and would be receiving his black carapace to join the legion as an astartes and Son of Dorn. It was not typical parents received this sort of word of a child taken by the legion, but he had almost been a battle brother of the Fists and in this the astartes of the VIIth seemed to feel sympathy and kinship with Hestus.

Fifteen years after their son had been taken to join the legion he had been assigned to the Phalanx as part of Lord Rann's Siege Breakers and they had seen him again as his company arrived from a compliance where they had been attached to the legion of Horus Lupercal and The Olympian Perturabo, and more to the surprise of he and his wife, their son still remembered them. Sometimes he came down to the level of their quarters and would visit, at first their children had wondered why the Imperial Fist legionnaire, huge and proud in his armor or bedecked in the tunic bearing the twin axes of the Siege Breakers, came to their three room quartering block and it had been much to their surprise when he had smiled and said, "I am your older brother." They had never told them of their older sibling for fear that he would die in the aspirant trials and to reveal his existence to siblings only to find out he had died would wound the children. He had embraced his siblings on that day and they had once again become a family, even though their eldest son now had two fathers…Hestus who had sired him, and Dorn who had remade him.

At present their daughter was attending one of the schola on Araeneus having been identified as possessing the potential for medicae aptitude and their second son was strongly mulling seeking billeting with the Naval Armsman Contingent in the expeditionary fleet. As he returned from the armorium prima he could smell the cooking in their habitation section before he'd even entered the corridor leading to his family quarters. No sooner had he entered the hatch he was greeted by the sight of his second son cooking while his wife fussed over the direction he gave her on cutting up a root vegetable for the dish he was preparing. Armsman be damned, he should seek to become a coquusi on Terra for his talent for the culinary could land him a place in the kitchens of the Imperial Palace. He had just closed the hatch and hung this thick leather craftsman's apron on a coat hook he had fashioned from scrap when a resounding knock came to their hatch. He turned and opened it in surprised and saw a pair of astartes bearing the black scapula with the white Oath Brazier Icon of the Archamusians standing at the entrance, their hands resting casually on their maglocked weapons.

"Armorer Primus Hestus Borsod, Medicae Secunda Deidra Cole-Borsod?" The voice came through their vox speakers.

All the talking had ceased and no sounds were present save the sizzling of the food their son was preparing, the environmental control fans, and the hum of the astartes' power armor.

"Y-yes?" Hestus finally answered.

"We must politely ask that you come with us, please." The other declared.

* * *

Brother Zebulun was an astartes, hand selected from a multitude of youths for genetic purity, robustness, mental disposition and intrepidity for his age. He had undergone the long and oft painful process of change that was the path that aspirants walked on the _chance_ that they may become an astartes. Hypnoindoctrination then the surgeries and more hypnoindoctrination followed by the grueling training then by more surgeries and more training on and on and on as he watched the numbers slowly be whittled down from one hundred to eighty, then eighty to fifty, then fifty to thirty. Of those that had been alive or had not washed out after receiving the gene-seed only twenty four received the black carapace. By the end of their first year of line company duty they were still twenty three, but he imagined that would soon drop off and some day he may come to be the last of the hundred that had begun the process.

Such was their way and he felt no reticence in continuing the cycle until his time came to fall in battle, then his gene seed would be harvested and new aspirants would receive it to continue serving their lord and sire, Rogal Dorn. And Zebulun would have it no other way, the part of him that still remembered what it was to be purely human felt pride that he was an astartes, pride that he was considered worthy of being a son of Dorn.

Rogal Dorn looked up from the Data slate to the astartes warrior before him, "Do you know why I have called you here, Zebulun?"

The young astartes attention snapped back to his Lord, disquieted, "I am not certain on that count, lord."

Dorn lifted the slate and waved it up and down where it perched between his index finger and thumb, "The reports of the Apothecaries indicate you have been losing weight, your body mass is down one and thirty eight hundredths of a percent in the last month."

Zebulun said nothing, he just kept his chin high but Dorn could see him swallow.

"Zebulun…"

"Lord?"

"Do you want to tell me why?"

"My lord-" the words died in the young warrior's throat.

"Would you like me to ask your parents?"

Zebulun's mouth opened but before a sound could issue forth the hatch slid open and his parents were ushered in by Captain Kye who waited for but a moment for a nod from Dorn then left the office attached to the Primarch's quarters.

"Hestus Borsod…" Dorn intoned, "I remember your parents."

The demi-astartes nodded and spoke in a choked tone, "I was almost one of your sons, Lord Dorn."

"I remember." He replied, "A rather peculiar genetic lack of sensitivity to light attenuation made you incapable of receiving the hypnotraining."

"I was a poor soldier without it, lord."

Dorn arched a brow, "To the contrary, your scores in every martial competency would have made you an _exceptional_ soldier, just a below average astartes, the hypnotraining conveys much that simple instruction cannot. Any auxilia tithe would have been fortunate to count you in their number and your performance in the battles to which you were privy was praised as excellent."

The small mortal woman, relatively speaking when in a room with two giants and the colossus Lord Dorn was, spoke up, "If I may ask, why are we here, lord Dorn?" She was mulling whether she should drop to her knees, curtesy or just keep her head bowed and the mental indecision had her fidgeting.

Dorn looked back over to Zebulun, "You have been taking half allotted evening ration to your parents and blood-siblings, have you not Zebulun?"

Both parents glanced to their astartes son then lowered their eyes, but Zebulun spoke before they could say anything, "I have, lord. I will accept whatever punishment you deign fit, lord, but please do not-"

"No one will be punished, Zebulun, it is not a thing deserving of a punishment." He mollified.

"Lord?" The astartes shifted his head to stare at the Primarch.

"Am I a cruel lord and father, my son?"

What a question? But Dorn would never brook a lie, nor would he dismiss the critique out of course, not when spoken from the lips of one of his gene sons. "Ours is a cruel method, lord, but it is tempered in practicality. I would never presume you to be cruel, but ours is to be cruel so that others do not have to be, ours is also a method of discipline."

"By depriving yourself to your physical detriment, but persisting in your duty without once alerting your brothers or commanders to an area of concern, I would dare to say you have demonstrated discipline, Zebulun." Dorn answered with almost paternal tenderness layered under the steely resolve for which his legion was most famed. "I cannot have sons of my own, so your parents were kind enough to bless me with theirs so that you could become my son. I do not begrudge the love of a son for his birth parents and it gives me pride to know you have done this in the spirit of charity, love, and a son's sense of duty. I know you Zebulun, as I know all my sons, and I know you have a sense of charity in you, a thing given without concern because there was need. I know you as well, Hestus, as a son of Inwit that would never ask charity of another and would repay in equal measure item for item or morsel for morsel by goods or deeds."

Ten years prior the administratum had audited the book-keeping of the Imperial Fists' fleet and discovered what they called "anomalous" taxation records of certain families. What they did not know was that this was the result of an old Inwit tradition that persisted in the fleet that you did not take a thing without giving something in return, even that which was freely given left the recipient honor-bound to repay in some means, it was just a part of the harsh life of privation on the world that sacrifice was repaid in kind. When Hestus and Diedra Borsod gave up their son to the Legion, the legion repaid their sacrifice of their first born by exempting them from the taxation levy to be defrayed from the legion coffers. The tradition was followed in unspoken understanding with the administratum and munitorium offices within the fleet but when the overreach of the Adeptus Terra became involved families were back-taxed for the years of absolution they had received.

Such was the bureaucratic inefficiency in the system that the burden of the taxation had just fallen upon the Borsods within the last year.

"Lord…" Hestus began, "we did not know this was affecting Zeb-" he caught himself, "brother Zebulun. If we had known we would have refused."

Dorn raised a hand, "It is alright, Hestus. I know the administratum's tax burden came down hard upon your family with the stipend you reserved for your daughter upon entering the collegium of Araeneus and to have two growing sons besides places burden on your family. We must also consider that through the gift of the implantations you came to require sustenance in excess of a mortal man."

The woman lifted her head, "Lord…you know of our daughter and…and our sons?"

Dorn allowed a hint of a smile, "I make it my concern to know of all that occurs among the greater reach of my legion, Medicae Secundus Diedra Cole-Borsod, I even know you two were wed in the eyes of the god you both believe in after the paperwork with the administratum was completed."

Everyone in the room paled and swallowed as one.

"Lord Dorn…father…" Zebulun sputtered.

Rogal looked back over to his astartes, seeming to ken the nature of his concern. "Who do you think built the chapel, Zebulun?"

It was clear at a glance that Hestus could not reconcile the contradiction, his brow furrowed and his hands balled into confused and frustrated fists, "But…lord…in the eyes of the Imperial Truth, my wife and I are heretics."

Rogal steepled his fingers. "Tell me, Hestus, do you believe in the primacy of humanity and the value of scientific knowledge, enlightenment, and understanding?"

"I do lord, we all do."

Dorn lifted a finger, "Do you believe that all methods of understanding are a gift of the divine and to seek understanding is the purest form of worship?"

"That was our way." Hestus answered, nodding, remembering the dictum of Inwiti Orthodoxy of seeking truth in the Great Mysteries.

"Then how are you a heretic if your metaphysical beliefs do not interfere with that and further reinforce it?" Rogal knew the truth of the immaterium, he still remembered hearing the quiet prayers of Old Night and the ancient chapels of Inwit and Catheric enclaves of Terra through the immutability of time, echoing through the substance of the warp, almost antithetical to that which resided there, drifting off to another quiet and hidden intelligence that the entirety of the primordial destroyer seemed to eschew.

"The Emperor-" Diedra began but Dorn lifted a single finger.

"Specifically railed against religion, in such there is a slight caveat whereby one could say that _faith_ specifically is not heretical to the Imperial Truth as an individual's beliefs should be theirs and theirs alone."

"The ice-caste does split the hair fine." Hestus offered with a grin that he immediately regretted, it slipped from him before he had time to consider his words, he suddenly felt a hot wash of horror and before he could begin sputtering obeisance a rumbling laugh came from the Lord of the VIIth.

"We never could take the Inwit out of you, Hestus."

"Appologies Lord, I seem to have inherited a scavver's quick tongue and equal lack of sense on when to employ it."

At the moment they were nothing more than two sons of Inwit, one of clan vassalage to another, and while the Inwiti could be quick to brutality, they appreciated candor and a word spoken true was never cause for the spilling of the blood of the speaker.

"To the matter at hand, I believe I can devise a solution that will be of positive disposition to all parties." Dorn declared as he lifted a piece of graphite from a narrow wooden tray and examined the end of it, "Your son…and your brother, Zebulun…Asher is talented in the culinary, is he not?"

Zebulun nodded, intuiting how his gene-father and lord had come to know this, but his birth parents stared in wide-eyed shock.

"It seems he desires to join the armsman contingent, but I believe he will grow out of that desire in due time, in the interstice I will place him in the culina regiis where his talents may be honed. Of course, there will be times when there will be excess or left-over dishes which can be brought back to his family, as has been the accepted way of the culina since the inception of the Imperial Navy and further back to the times before Old Night."

"Father…" Zebulun began, but stopped as abruptly.

"I cannot ease the burden of the taxation and the administratum's bureaucracy, but this will perhaps better ease the burden of basic sustenance than whatever rations Zebulun brought to you."

Hestus bowed his head deeply, "Thank you, Lord."

Dorn raised a hand, "Do not be so quick to thank me, should your son decide he hates life as a coquusi, you will likely be the ones to hear of his displeasure." He turned his head slightly to the astartes, "Zebulun…"

"Lord?"

"You are dismissed; I will expect to see that you have returned to your original weight by the next report of the apothecae."

"Yes…" he hung for a moment on a title, "father."

The astartes departed, sparing not a glance towards his parents, perhaps from some embarrassment of forcing them into this situation, perhaps not wanting to show such sentimentality before his lord. Before either could ask for leave to depart Dorn raised a single imperious finger again, "I have a question of you, Hestus, Diedra."

The small woman bowed her head, "We will answer whatever we can, lord Dorn."

"I will preface by saying I know that you learned of Zebulun's ascending to the ranks of the astartes because my sons told you as one who would have been their brother and among my first sons, Hestus, but what I desire to know is whether you approached Zebulun or he approached you."

"Zebulun came to us, but I fear we may have perhaps fomented it, Lord." The mortal woman answered.

Dorn tapped the stick of graphite twice on a piece of parchment; his brows furrowed contemplatively, "How so?"

The woman's lips stole into a smirk as she turned and pointed with theatrical deliberateness at Hestus, "He stands out in a crowd, lord."

The corner of Dorn's mouth crept up slightly as he glanced down at the parchment, "I suppose that he would."

He looked up at the two, Hestus was likely functionally immortal like all astartes or, at the very least, his natural lifespan would far outstrip that of a mortal human, save for a few lines and the pitting of forge work on his face, Dorn could not appreciably see any real aging on the man since his time as an aspirant. Diedra Cole had changed little in the twenty years since she had wed herself to Hestus, but as fair as she was, he did look her thirty nine years even if they were graceful and fertile years. He marveled at the contrast, he huge and blushed with fairer aspects of virility, she possessed of the dual virtues of her sex; soft yet subtly domineering.

"So when Seneschal Rann returned to the fleet with his forces, you came to witness the formatio victoria?"

"Yes, lord." Hestus replied, "Based on my experience as an aspirant and the reason I was not able to proceed to geneseed implantation and receiving my black carapace, I believed it was safe to assume Zebulun would not recognize us."

"Did you recognize him?" He directed the question more specifically at Diedra.

"We did, lord, we were able to pick him out immediately."

Dorn cock his head to the side slightly, lacing his fingers together, "How so?"

"His head was not cleanly shaved and I recognized his part line in the stubble." The woman answered a moment before Hestus spoke up adding more information, "He also still had the same gentle eyes our son always had, lord."

Dorn tapped the parchment again with the graphite, "I have heard it said Zebulun has kind eyes, Rann told me that such eyes should not fool me, though."

"Lord?" Hestus inquired, the confusion evident.

"One is not sent to the siege breakers via appointment or standard billeting, they are carefully selected. Zebulun does indeed have a gentle side to his nature as has been witnessed by his brothers and attested to in his conduct between battles, but in war he is patient and unmovable as a stone on defense and as ferocious as my brother Angron's war hounds on attack." It surprised Rogal to see that this revelation seemed to awaken more an expression of concern in Hestus than Diedra.

He filed it away mentally and continued, "On the world thirty nine fifty one he held in a shield wall for four hours beside his brothers until the auxilia for our push on the capital city's fortifications were in position and once the shields unlocked for the charge he was the first over the enemy walls and slew thirty eight in close combat with his seax in under four minutes, opening a lane by which our forces could penetrate and encircle the defensive fortifications. Later in the same day he attacked an enemy armored squadron moving in column to attack our flanks, he destroyed the first tank with a krak grenade and stopped the entire column, preventing a tercio of Auxilia from being flanked and attacked. Three days after that he captured an enemy supply depot, again single handed, and forced an entire brigade of the enemy to retreat with their supply compromised."

The biological parents exchanged looks, the demi-astartes still looking concerned but on Diedra Cole-Borsod's face was a smile of pride and satisfaction at the revelations. He began to scribe an order giving Asher Borsod a remit to enter to Culina Regiis and undertake apprenticeship with the Coquusi Primus as he continued. "Zebulun walks the thin line between rash and judicious with a discipline some say that only the seventh legion possesses. It is for this reason he drew the eye of Seneschal Rann. He is an excellent warrior and I count myself as fortunate that you blessed me with such a son."

* * *

Asher Borsod could have become an astartes. Kye watched with a critical eye as Hestus approached with his son, his right resting on the shoulder of the boy. He was a tall lad, very tall for his age and strongly built in a time he should be a gangly and awkward youth. If this son was anything like Zebulun he could complete the trials and enter into the strange realm of duality that they all occupied; sons of two fathers, human and yet not, the weapons of the Emperor's will and their lord's remit.

"Hestus, I was told you were bringing me a cook, not an aspirant." Kye declared with a hint of a smirk at his former aspirant-brother.

"Brother Captain, I plead that you get no such ideas." Hestus declared in a deferential tone.

"Be at peace, Hestus, I have no design on making any more astartes out of your sons, though I must admit it was a shame we could not have convinced you and Diedra to have produced a few more, we could have staffed an entire line company, but we would have likely had to provide you with larger quarters and greatly reduced work-shift for that." Kye replied, the smirk turning into a slight grin as he watched his brother flush pink at this. At times it was hard to remember that Hestus was still human…greatly enhanced, nearly astartes in his own right, but the basic soul and personality had never been wiped blank by the indoctrination and training. Kye couldn't help but wonder if a day would come where all the sons of Dorn could be able to make such a claim, to remember who they were and what made them unique from before they underwent the trials.

"Lord," the boy began, "I don't think I could become an astartes, I'm not as strong as Zebulun…brother Zebulun."

Kye looked down at the youth, at twelve almost the size of most adult men, "Your brother Zebulun was younger than you and I doubt any stronger and you need not be so formal with me, boy, your father was like a brother to me."

The boy bowed his head, "As you wish, brother captain."

"Just call me Kye. Are you ready to report to the culina?"

There was a twinkle in the lad's eyes as he looked up, "Yes, I am ready."

The Archamusian Master looked over to the Armorer Primus, "I will escort him, Hestus, he will return on the evening midway the second watch."

The armorer nodded, squatting to level himself eye-to-eye with his son, "Keep sharp ears and sharp eyes, son, do whatever the coquusi instructs, understand?"

The boy nodded, "I will."

"Good boy, we're proud of you."

Kye felt a moment of melancholy, he would never produce offspring of his own, never take a wife and have sons or daughters, the closest he would come was when they had extracted his secondary progenoid. In but a few years they would repeat the process and harvest the regrown replacement, but they would not be his sons, they would be his brothers. He hung on the thoughts of the strange loneliness that defined his life and that of all astartes as he clapped wrist to wrist with Hestus and began leading Asher for the Culina.

"Who was Archamus?"

The boy's questions snapped him from his reverie. "Archamus? He was one of the first like your father and I. Archamus became an astartes the same time I did."

"What happened to him?"

"Happened?"

"I'm sorry sir…it's just…you lead the Archamusians…you don't name something after someone who's still alive."

Kye turned his head to look down at the boy, "We call ourselves sons of Dorn…lord Dorn still lives."

"Yes, but you call yourselves that, to everyone else calls you the seventh legion or Imperial fists." Asher answered without pause.

Kye arched his brows, "I can't argue with that. Archamus, Captain Yonad, and myself were close, battle brothers from the time we received our first implants. We all progressed through the training, received the gene seed, our black carapaces, and appointment in the thirty eighth battle company. On our first campaign Archamus was struck by an anti-armor round and died, but before that he did, he entreated me to remember the oaths we made to lord Dorn and to each other. I named the Order of the Oath Brazier the Archamusians because we bind ourselves in the oaths to serve our Primarch beyond the mere remit of astartes, just as we did then and as Archamus bid us continue to do as he lay dying.."

The boy nodded, his face solemn, it made him think of how Zebulun was storied among his battle brothers even at the young age for his great sense of empathy. When the young Zebulun had been brought into the Siege Breakers, some of his more experienced battle brothers had witnessed him divvying up a ration between civilians displaced in their assault on a stronghold of some dissolute ruler who had refused compliance. A veteran sergeant and two other astartes had grumbled amongst themselves about Zebulun wasting it on mortals and petty commoners where Seneschal Rann had declared, "The boy does it because he is gentle and kind when he's not splitting skulls. Five hours ago these people fled in terror at the mere sight of us, now they will remember that one of the monsters from the stars filled their stomachs and kept them alive after their lord turned his back on them, if there is a better way to bring these people into the Imperial fold I have yet to see it."

Kye furrowed his brow, "Did you never ask your father about Archamus?"

"I asked him about some of it, but I never asked why you called your order the Archamusians."

Kye continued without a word, then finally gave into his curiosity, "Why not?"

"Because it wouldn't be right to ask him, I knew that if it was right for me to know you would tell me and if it wasn't right for me to know, I'd never ask anyone else."

Kye nodded, there was respect in that, honoring the rites and meaning of the Order, knowing there were things he might not have a right to know. "You are a good lad, Asher."

They continued for some time with some slight conversation, it was an effort for Kye, but this was the son of one who would have been brother to him and he did feel a unique kinship with Hestus in this, most of the first did. Some of the younger intake of Inwit referred to Hestus jokingly as "uncle", though never to his face. Hestus had, perhaps, become bigger as a armorer than he ever would have been as an astartes, and for a young battle brother of the legion the giant, who they assumed to be mortal, swinging his great maul to beat out the plate or frame from the legions terminators and dreadnoughts must seem larger than life. Hestus had always been tall, taller than most of the others of the first and this had persisted through his time as an initiate until he was determined unfit to continue in the training process. He'd always been strong and accurate, but the physical mnemonics that were part of the hypnotraining had never become ingrained and no amount of training could compensate for that lag in reaction time. Everything he did was deliberate at a point it should have been instinct, with enough time it may have become instinctual for him, but at critical moments during the training when success or failure, life or death were measured in slivers of a second the slight hesitation of consideration could have resulted in the death of not only him, but his aspirant squad mates.

When they reached the culina and entered the coquusi tertia almost dropped a pot in surprise, bowing his head.

"L-lord, what brings you to the culina regiis, does the lord primarch require sustenance?"

"Where is the coquusi primus?" Kye inquired, finding the kitchen cramped in his power armor.

The older man stepped forward, thick limbed and pot-bellied belying his physical strength, roughly the same height at Asher but much thicker limbed with a hard expression and a pocked nose set over the most precisely waxed and uncharacteristic mustache Kye had ever witnessed. He was always a gruff man and Kye found he almost appreciated the affected bellicosity of the head chef with whom he had butt heads more than once in a unique posturing dynamic that amused Kye.

"I bring orders from lord Dorn." Kye declared to the chef who stood arms akimbo as he glared back with all the intensity one without one iota of truly martial pedigree could muster.

"That damn fish broth?" The Coquusi Primus barked with a sour expression.

Kye stymied a grin, he knew for a fact that the primus would allow none other to touch or prepare the broth, spending hours refining the flavor and consistency to mimic the thin Inwiti soup that Dorn's old Sergeant Custus had brought to him for years when he still existed as lord of the Inwit Star Empire.

"Why, do you have some prepared?"

An affected sigh and grumble issued from the thick lips of the head chef as he folded his thick arms over his barrel chest, "I might have some…"

Kye shot the man an equally affected glare, "Come off it, old man, we both know you take pride in making lord Dorn the best fish soup in the Imperium."

"Old man?! I'll have you know you're twenty years ol-" he stopped, "did you say the _best_ fish soup?"

He reached up and began pulling and twisting at his waxed mustache, trying to hide his pleasure at having his skill so declared.

"Lord Dorn says he can close his eyes and feel Inwit with each sip." That much was true, it was one of the few comforts Dorn allowed himself and once he actually closed his eyes and mistakenly called Kye Custus.

"Who is the boy, a new dish washer? I did not think bringing staff to the kitchens was a duty fit for the captain of the Huscarls."

Kye held out the folded parchment, "On the order of Lord Dorn."

The chef walked over and snatched the parchment with all the patrician haughtiness as would befit the lord of the little pocket empire he seemed to view the Culina Regiis as then broke the wax seal, opening the four corners and began to read. He muttered the words as he read them, reaching up with his left hand to twist the ends of his moustache, "By my hand and by my decree, Rogal Dorn, lord Primarch of the seventh legion… Asher Borsod, eh? So you like to cook, boy?"

"Sir, I do." The lad responded.

"Any good at it?"

"I do not know, sir, my family and my brother like it."

"Your brother, isn't he part of your family?" The chef inquired with knitted brows.

"The brother to whom he refers is an astartes of Seneschal Rann's siege breakers." Kye supplied.

"So you wanted to be a coquusi, pulled in a family favor?"

Kye felt a spark of anger in this, to imply the son of one of his would-be brothers, the brother of one who _was_ gene brother to him would stoop to nepotism, the very idea that his lord…his sire…would entertain such debased politicking. He opened his mouth but the lad spoke, cutting him off.

"Sir, I had intended to become an armsman in the fleet, but our lord believes I have a talent that should be utilized, that's the way of the legion and Inwit, to utilize appropriate talents where appropriate."

Kye felt the anger squelch as he saw how the boy had turned the accusation around.

"This isn't Inwit, and you are no legionnaire, boy." The chef crowed at him.

"But this ship was built above Inwit, and its lord, the one who holds the power of life, death, usefulness, or irrelevance _is_ from Inwit and _is_ the lord and master of a legion." Asher countered deftly.

"You have a smart mouth." The cook frowned, each word enhancing his scowl.

"My brain isn't too shabby either, sir."

The cook's scowled deepened, brows furrowed, lips pulling inward then suddenly cracked into loud guffaws. "Alright, boy, you're clever enough for the culina, now let's see if you have any actual talent, cook something for me."

Kye was still irritated, but he could see that Asher seemed to have some talent for handling the recalcitrant coquusi and prepared to depart but not before he left one final reminder that the chef should control his sense of imperiousness specifically when it came to his father and lord. He placed an armored hand on Asher's shoulder, prompting the lad to look up at him, "Will you be well here, Asher Borsod?"

He nodded, a smile crossing his face, "I think I will be fine Captain Kye, I hope I can honor our lord's trust in me."

Kye nodded and turned, leaving the Culina, he would report to lord Dorn that his appointment for Asher had been discharged and proceed about the duties and concerns of the day, the bulk of the fleet would be making for Araneus Prime to take on a new supply of the Araneus pattern war gear for the legion and a cadre of "tech priests" that had been attached to the legion and expressed a certain degree of apostasy towards the machine cult and desired to indulge in the pure science that was rumored to be occurring in the forges of the former Inwiti Star Empire.

* * *

Diedra Borsod wasn't astartes, but she had borne one, and if she was to have her way she would bear more. The Rejuvenat treatment was justified through the pretense of biologan study of parental implantation of pre-geneseed organs and her own genetic purity. Initially there had been a suggestion that Hestus simply sire additional children by other women, a suggestion she had not wanted to make and one she had made more to assuage her own need to know where Hestus stood.

As it turned out, Hestus had no desire to sire more children to be given over to the VIIth Legion, he had brought up the comments made by Captain Kye in passing, something he found amusing and he was certain she would as well. What he had not expected was that she _wanted_ to honor the legion by giving it more sons to become warriors. Even the amongst failed aspirants in the VIIth the death rate was under fifty percent, possibly the lowest out of every legion. Children died every day in the Imperium, on some worlds the numbers were truly alarming, compared to the expected life-span of many hive dwellers and feral worlders, the mortality rates among legion aspirants was actually lower. Every day tens of millions of infants were born in some of the more heavily populated segmentums, and in those segmentums up to a half or more would never make it to adolescence. Diedra hedged that if Hestus had been so close to becoming an astartes and if Zebulun had excelled to the level of which was rumored, she could produce other sons that would be able to succeed as aspirants and join their brother in the legion, remade as sons of Dorn.

She found herself now in front of Lord Dorn again, alone this time, having been summoned to stand before him by another pair of the Archamusians as she had been seven years prior.

"Mistress Cole-Borsod..." Dorn began where he stood by a drafting table.

"Lord, I have come as summoned."

Dorn lifted his head to examine her, his gaze always inscrutable. "Do you not think Zebulun was gift enough?"

How could she answer the question? Here was a transcendent being speaking to her like any mortal would to any other, what could she say? Every instinct told her she should supplicate herself and beg forgiveness for the temerity of assuming she should be the one to provide sons to the Lord of the VIIth, but there was another part of her that realize that this was a man who appreciated candor and would respect directness more than platitudes. "Lord, if I overstep I can only say I am heartily sorry for my pretentiousness, but my only desire is to strengthen the legion."

"Do you assume you are uniquely positioned to do so, Diedra Borsod?"

"Only in a very relative sense, Lord."

He set the brass caliper he had been holding while taking measurements down, "Enlighten me." his voice rumbled.

"By your own admission, Zebulun was a warrior of quality, it was my womb that served to create him from Hestus' seed. If it could be said that Zebulun proved to be an excellent warrior because he excelled during his time as an aspirant, would it not be worth seeing if more warriors of such quality could be supplied from the raw material of hardy and genetically pure children?"

"You are not a brood mother, Diedra, to expect such from you is vile."

"And if I do it voluntarily, Lord?"

"If such is the case, I am humbled by the devotion, however I must have your word and oath that you would surrender them to me voluntarily."

Her eyes widened, "They were pre-selected?"

"Both Issachar and Gad were declared eligible for aspirant training on the basis of physique and genetic purity, though we did not one small mutation in Gad...he shows many of the hallmarks of early development in psykers."

Diedra paled, "What will be done with him?"

"With the blessing of you, I will induct him into the aspirant trials to become a Librarian of my legion."

She furrowed her brows, he was was a Primarch, the closest thing to a physical manifestation of an angel of the Lord she could think of. "Why do you need my blessing, lord, what right for I have to possibly deny you?"

Dorn placed a hand on the table, looking off at a darkly lit book case lined with old tomes bound in colored leathers with letters of gold leaf, "The taking of sons to make into astartes, to have them join my legion is an intolerable cruelty, Diedra Borsod, perhaps it is a necessary cruelty, but a cruelty none the less. I have subjected your family to this cruelty once already, as I did Hestus' family when we took him, I have attempted to ameliorate the wound I cause at taking children from parents who have kept and cherished their children, I have attempted to be a father for those unwanted children who were cast off to the aspirant tithe or found alone and near-feral. But you and Hestus loved and cherished Zebulun and we can thank whatever greater power that may be that Zebulun was never stripped from you as a son but simply remade into something...greater. I cannot guarantee that such would be the case for Issachar and Gad, and if they were to die in training, if they were to fail, or if they were to forget you, would not that just be visiting a cruelty-once-denied on you again?"

"Lord, life is cruel, I think it must be crueler than it once was because I cannot see even human stubbornness prevailing if it was always this cruel. A day may come when life is no longer cruel, but it is not this age, if we are to usher in an age of hope and reason, would not sacrifice now be preferrable to later?"

Dorn's eyes softened slightly as he caste their cold slate gaze on her, "You turn my own rhetoric on me, Diedra Borsod."

"Lord, I would rather endure a cruelty that was incidental than one that is deliberate, I know from your words that you would not levy any further pains or burdens on me and my family, and that is why I am comfortable in commending my sons to you, to become your sons. Besides, I still have three other children who are not astartes."

Asher had finished the apprenticeship in the Culina and had found in being a coquusi a calling, at present he had ascended to Coquusi Secunda in the Culina Regiis and was being obviously groomed to take over at Primus within a decade. Dinah had not returned to the fleet, but she was still connected inexorably to the VIIth, acting as a Biologan Tertia on Araneus evaluating aspirant tithes before being moved to the various training worlds of the VIIth. And Dan...Dan had been the child that most oft drew the least attention, but he had shown promise for calculation and as such was training to become a Gunnery Adjutant Adicior within the fleet.

"I take it then, that I have your blessing to take two more of my sons for you increase?"

She nodded.

"And Hestus, does he not have a father's veto?"

Diedra stared at the Primarch for a moment, unsure what to make of the question, "Lord...he would never deny you anything."

* * *

Hestus Borsod could have been an astartes, and the still and quiet shame that had once caused him, the shame of failing, was all but gone now. He still held the role of Armorer Primus on the Phalanx, one of only five having been made the Primus of the great Domum Electi, tending to the weapons and armor of the Templars, Huscarls, and Siege Breakers. Ah yes...the Siege Breakers...his augmetic hand clicked reflexively as he thought back to the day he saw his life within a hair's breadth of ending. That was the day he'd looked over to his wounded first son, a hole from some accelerator weapon punched through his chest armor. Zebulun had been in a moment of unconsciousness when he'd dropped down beside him, his own hand and forearm shredded to pulp by a similar weapon and had believed for a moment that he had witnessed his birth-son's death.

His son's helmeted head jerked with a start, "Armorer Primus Borsod?"

"Brother Sergeant...Zebulun..."

Zebulun had looked down at the hole in the armor, cratered at the edges and crusted slightly with the fast congealing blood they both shared. "It's not so bad as it looks da, I'll need an apothecary before the day closes but it won't be mortal even if I have to crawl back to the Thunderhawk."

The training he remembered had kicked in at that moment, "Did it hit your spine, are you incapable of standing?"

He'd overlooked the term of endearment Zebulun had used at that moment, his instincts as a father incapable of separating the fear he felt for his stricken son from his role with the legion.

Zebulun grunted out a laugh, "No, I would crawl because I am not willing to entertain taking another such wound. Da...your arm."

Hestus had lifted the stump, a thick paste of clotted blood and dirt covering the tattered meat of the end, "Quite the thing isn't it?"

"Does..." Zebulun's voice grew quieter, softer, "does it hurt?"

"Like the fires of hell...but it's cleaner than it looks, the bone sheared clean, the meat is well...they'll just have to slap on an augmetic, but there are worse things."

An apothecary had found them, Zebulun had been patched up quickly and risen to rejoin his unit, however when it was time to receive treatment the apothecary had been insistent that Hestus be evacuated as a casualty. He'd tried to refuse at the tme but Zebulun had concurred, "You need to get it treated, Da, what would they say if they knew I let you stay here with a shredded arm and a missing hand?"

The apothecary had escorted him back to a casualty collection point, "A thunderhawk will be here in ten minutes to take you back to the fleet, Armorer Da."

"Hestus...I'm armorer Hestus, Hestus Borsod."

"But brother Zebulun..." The apothecary began, somehow managing to manifest and almost confused expression on the solid face-plate of his helmet.

"He called me Da because he's my son, I sired him, my wife gave birth to him."

Later that very year Issachar had joined his brother as an astartes, selected to join the Templars but there had been some question regarding Gad. They had heard he had received his gene seed and black carapace, but no posting had been declared until word came that he had been sent to train an additional year among the Hound Keepers of Angron's XIIth and then eight months amongst the Corvidae of Lord Magnus' XVth. Two years later he returned to the legion, having blooded himself next to his War Hound and Thousand Son cousins and had been inducted into the Librarius on the Phalanx. All three of their sons had survived the path of the aspirant, each had succeeded in becoming astartes and while Issachar had only vague memories of his life and family from before his induction, his twin brother Gad seemed to have retained none. Still they found themselves drawn to their hab-quarters in the Phalanx, often following behind their older brother, Sergeant Zebulun who had since readopted his last name of Borsod.

On such nights Asher would prepare a humble family feast and they would sit around the table with their brother Dan and their trio of younger siblings who had been born after Issachar and Gad had left to join the legion and all would seem right with the universe for those few hours they spent together, if only they could devise a way to draw Dinah back to the fleet though with her new family, a husband and three children of her own, such was unlikely. Dinah had been present when Issachar received his black carapace, and she had apparently wept to meet the younger brothers she had never met. Levi and Judah were so enraptured by their three astartes brothers, sometimes arriving in their armor, other times in tunics or robes, and in those moments even Gad who could not recollect the family by his own mind would smile for he would feel the contentment around him.

The Three Brothers…that was what the Legion called them, three brothers all ascended as astartes and sons of Dorn, but every astartes who marveled at the statistical unlikelihood and the gravity of familial sacrifice paid them homage. Diedra had risen in rank to Effectus Medicae Primus, every Medicae on the Phalanx and the attendant permenant Auxilia force of the VIIth legion reporting up the chain of command to her, it was a position of great prestige and respect, but to the astartes she was "Honored Mother" or "Great Matron" and they bowed their heads slightly if they passed or would halt a transport tram to allow her a berth if she approached. A second round of Rejuvant treatment a year after reaching her current position had seen her give birth to their youngest three children, and when time came for the mandatory genetic screening of the infants Kye himself had entered the nursery, dismissed the Biologans at bolter point and crushed the samples in his gauntlet.

"Hestus, Diedra, you have both given enough to the Legion and the Imperium."

Of course neither would hear anything of the sort at that point and they had submitted the samples themselves to the biologans days later. Judah had been identified as genetically pre-selected for aspirant trials and this time Dorn himself had come to their quarters to speak to them and to their boy. Hestus still remembered the straight forward youthful innocence Judah had displayed, then a mere five. As Dorn knelt to look at the child he had climbed up on the Primarch's armored thigh and just stared at the face wide eyed. Dorn's giant hand had come up to steady the boy, and he'd looked back down into the child's eyes.

"Judah…it is a good name."

"Are you my grandda?"

"After a strange manner, I might be close to being such. A time may come in the years to come where you are asked to become like your brothers Zebulun, Issachar, and Gad. It will be hard, there will be pain, and you may perhaps even die. If the day comes where you are asked to follow this path, you must think hard on it, harder than any boy should ever have to think."

"Is that how you become a son of Dorn?" Judah asked, eyes still wide.

"It is the path one must take to reach that point, yes." The lord replied.

"I'll think about it then, when they ask…but I'll probably say yes."

The Primarch smiled down at Judah, the stone of his face softening to something gentle and paternal, "You will have all the time you need to consider it, Judah"

Judah was nine now, and in the coming weeks the question would be put to him, a choice for him to make on his own because the family had earned that right in the eyes of the Primarch and his would-be Legion brothers. Judah was already bigger than Zebulon, Issachar, or Gad had ever been, a strong and muscled youth, a fast runner, a quick mind, and in his heart he had been prepared since the day their Lord had come to see him four years prior to follow the aspirant path his brothers had followed, the path his father had followed, because Hestus Borsod _could_ have been an astartes.


End file.
